


Bluebirds

by sweetoceancloud



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 102,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetoceancloud/pseuds/sweetoceancloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bluebirds is the story of Tom and Gabby, as told by Tom. Romance, fluff, humour, and just the tiniest bit of angst. But not much. At all. A touch of intrigue and adventure, too. Some Scary bits. And Tom's a tad neurotic, but you'll forgive him that.  Includes as chapters a series of one-shots involving Tom and Gabby, mostly for mature audiences.  :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tweets One through Three

Tweets all/no replies

25 May 

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston

Ah, yes. Home again. Grateful for a precious few days off. Now. What to do first?

 

I popped my index finger down upon the mouse with a flourish, clicking the “tweet” button, and letting the internet and all its wonders take my meager little message and display it on my Twitter feed for the entire world to see – or at least, for those few who were actually interested in reading my Twitter feed. Few meaning, about 540,000, which to this day, I can’t seem to suss out why.

My desk chair creaked a bit, straining under the shifting weight as I leaned back in it, kicking my stockinged feet upon an open bottom desk drawer. I peered down into the drawer and, for a moment, pondered the merits of pulling out that Hamlet script Ken Branagh had sent me. But, no. Not today. 

It felt truly satisfying to skive off for a bit; to just sit and think, stewing in my own brain after months constantly on the go. Now, I had no one wanting me, I had no place to be, and I had nothing to do. Just simply… to relax. Yes, it was a consummation devoutly to be wished. To relax, to sit; to sit, perchance to… Christ! Never mind. Aye, there was the rub: work was going to be harder to push aside than I had thought.

So, I sat there, with my arms raised, fingers entwined against the back of my head, fingers scratching slightly through my unruly, bristly, curly hair; lovingly known to my sisters as the “bottle brush.” I’d let it grow out a bit, and on that particular day I’d let it go au naturel, as they say; letting it dry completely on its own after my shower. No itchy character hairpieces, no gels, no pomades, none of that Label M or Aveda crap that my publicist and whatever stylist he decides to bring along makes me use on the red carpet or at premieres or what have you. 

That day, I was not going to give a single thought to my appearance, my voice, my body, my smile, my clothes, my… whatever. I didn’t even shave. I was not going to be an actor. I was just going to be Tom. Just Tom, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it. 

I sat in that position, scratching at the back of my head, and watched as the response tweets rolled in. There was one from my mate, Zac Levi, suggesting that I go all tourist-ey and flash my bare bottom to a Beefeater at the Tower. I leaned forward in the chair, fingers typing quickly in response, “I can’t be arsed to.” Chuckling to myself, I closed the Mac, and heaved my bum out of the creaky chair.

I threw on a pair of old jeans, a BonIver t-shirt, trainers, and a black cardi, stuffed my iPad and some Clif bars in my rucksack, my wallet and keys in the cardi pocket, headed out the door of my flat and bounded down the stairs. There were two stacks of post on the table by the door. I scooped mine up and stuffed it in the outside pocket of my bag. I pushed the outside door open. As I walked through, the door handle caught on my cardi and I was unceremoniously yanked back. I cursed under my breath, straightened myself out, and jogged out onto the pavement, heading toward Starbucks.

It was a decent day in London; not warm, not cool, patchy clouds set out against a blue-gray sky. The streets were busy, thick with people on the pavements and cars on the roads, bustling for an early Saturday morning. I found myself twisting and turning now and again to fit my lanky body in between or around groups of chattering girls or tourists stopped in the middle of the pavement to study a map. I took pity on one such group; a hopelessly lost French family, and pointed them in the direction of the Sloane Square Tube station. The rather ample-sized mother hugged me, and the father grasped my shoulders and kissed both my cheeks.

What a great way to start the day.

The Starbucks appeared just ahead, around the bend in the road. My mouth started salivating at the thought of a Pike Place Roast and whatever sugar-laden, fat-dripping pastry I could lay my hands upon. I placed my hand on the door to push my way into the coffee shop, and with my other hand, reached for my wallet.

My wallet was not where I had put it, namely in my cardi pocket. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! I’d walked four blocks from my flat to this place and my wallet could have dropped out anywhere; and worse, could have been picked up by anyone. Stupid git. Stupid, stupid, stupid, git, you are, Tom. Panicking, I moved off to the side, between the Starbucks and a small café to the right and started rummaging through everything. My trouser pockets, front and back. Nope. My rucksack – main pocket, side pockets, front pockets, inner front pocket, inner back pocket, inner bloody side pocket, pocket underneath, phone pocket, pocket in the flap – crap, this thing had too many fucking pockets. Nope. I straightened up, checking my cardi once again. Finding nothing but keys, I puffed out my cheeks and blew out a resigned, angry burst of breath. I wondered for a moment if my wallet had been nicked by someone in that nice French family. Merde, I hoped not. 

I thought of what was in there. My driving licence. Damn, I’d have to pay a visit to the DVLA. Hated that. Credit cards. Shit. What’s my credit limit again? Not too much cash, maybe a tenner or two, but not much. That was okay. Photos of my parents, sisters, nieces and nephews. Those could be replaced. Probably the worst was the studio expense credit card. Losing that could be disastrous. The credit limit was probably astronomical and I’d be personally responsible for reimbursing anything some yob would spend on it. Now, that prospect truly frightened me. I was well off enough, but not that wealthy.

I started to hyperventilate a little, pulling on my hair, my eyes screwed shut and my teeth gritted. I couldn’t help but imagine the undue horror of that French father, or worse — some chav in an Adidas track suit, haggling for a Maserati or a loaded up Range Rover and then handing over the Paramount Pictures credit card to pay for it, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

“Hey, there.”

I opened one eye and peered, worried that I’d been recognized. A woman, about my age, was studying me with a very strange expression on her face. Thankfully, it was not one of those “You’re Tom Hiddleston, oh my gawwwwwwwd!” looks. She smiled a little and squeezed my shoulder. I suppose I must have looked a fright. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just lost my bloody stupid wallet, is all.”

She hitched her shoulder. “What does it look like?”

“Why?” I asked, startled, “did… did you find one?”

“Yup,” she nodded once, her smile broadening, “on the bottom step just outside my flat.” She reached into her jacket pocket. “But you know I can’t give it to you until you can identify it.” She shrugged again and leaned against the building. “Can’t be giving a wallet to someone it doesn’t belong to, can I?”

I laughed. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s a brown ostrich leather bi-fold, says Burberry on the inside, initials TWH embossed on the outside near the stitching.” I nodded my head and folded my arms against my chest.

 

“Good, so far,” she grinned, pulling out my wallet and opening it. Relieved, I made a quick snatch for it. She pulled it back. “Nuh, uh, huh!” She waggled her finger at me. “Tell me your name first. There could be more than one TWH who lost his very, very expensive Burberry wallet whilst walking around Chelsea this morning. After all, it isChelsea.”

“Seriously?” I laughed, playfully glaring at the woman. “You shouldn’t be nosing in others’ wallets anyway.” I made another grab for it, but she was too quick, tucking it away behind her back.

“I had to see who it belonged to! You’re lucky I did look, really. I recognized you standing here looking all panic-stricken from your licence photo, even with your hair sticking out everywhere.” I frowned and involuntarily smoothed my curls down, garnering a chuckle from the woman. She continued, “If I hadn’t looked, I’d have passed you right by.” She opened the wallet again, making me cringe a little at the intrusion. “So, then, Mister TWH. What do those initials stand for? What’s your full, honest-to-God legal name?” She looked up at me expectantly.

I breathed in through my nose and puffed the air back out my mouth. “Thomas. William. Hiddleston,” I said, overemphasizing each part of my name.

 

“Top marks, here you go,” she grinned, and handed the wallet over to me. I rummaged through it quickly, and found that the licence, cards, photos, notes, and, thankfully, the Paramount credit card were all accounted for. As I was doing so, I hadn’t noticed that she started to walk away toward the coffee shop.

“Oi!” I shouted. She stopped and turned. I pocketed the wallet – in my jeans this time – picked up my rucksack, and followed the few steps after her. “Where are you going? I never thanked you.” 

She shook her head and shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said, placing her hand on the door to pull it open. I reached over and pulled it for her, ushering her inside with a gesture. “Thanks.” She continued walking toward the barista counter. 

I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No,” I said, “thank you. Truly, you’re a lifesaver.” She smiled, nodded, turned from me again, and took her place in line. She dug into her bag and produced a few notes out of her own wallet. Emboldened, I stepped in behind her and placed a hand over her wrist, pushing down. “Do you honestly think that after you rescued me from a fate worse than death that you are going to pay for your own coffee today?” 

She tilted her head, flummoxed. Cute, I thought. She laughed; even cuter. “Fate worse than death? From losing your wallet?”

“Yeah, of course!” I said, dramatically, with a false expression of horror. Where this flirtatiousness was coming from, I had no idea, but I went with it. I crouched down slightly so my face was near hers. Didn’t have to go far, she was nearly of a height to me. “Imagine, how horrific, appalling, dreadful, horrible and terrible it would have been if I was forced, against my will, against every single fibre of my being… to phone up Barclay’s and have to…,” I gasped, pressing my hand to my chest, “get all of my cards cancelled, and ack! Reissued!” I covered my eyes with the back of my hand, drawing looks from some of the other patrons. “Oh, the agony of it all!”

 

She laughed, placing a hand over mine to stop the spectacle. That was good. That was very good, her touch like that, on me, on my hand. In the moment, I wasn’t sure why it was good, but it was. “You’re a riot, you are,” she giggled and tucked her money into her back jeans pocket. Strange, but I liked that giggle; the giggle was good, very good. “Yes I suppose you can buy my coffee, since you put it that way,” she nodded, “thank you.”

Couldn’t help myself but grin like a bloody fool.

Not to bore with details, but by the way things go, she stepped up to the barista and ordered her spiced vanilla espresso concoction and yoghurt. She gave her name, Gabby, and the barista scribbled it on the side of a white cup. Gabby. Cool name, I thought. Short for, what? Gabrielle? Gabriela? Gabriel? She – Gabby – gave me a quick poke in the shoulder, pulling me out of my reverie, and I, in my turn, requested a venti Pike Place Roast and yes, I splurged on a bacon buttie. Damn the fat and calories. I used the Starbucks app on my iPhone to pay, which seemed, from her smile, to impress Gabby just a little bit. Brilliant move, Tom.

When the barista called her name, Gabby collected her drink with a quick “thank you.” She turned to me, and lifted her cup in salute, “Here’s to never losing your wallet again, Tom.” She hitched her bag up on her shoulder, and started toward the door. “Thanks for the breakfast. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around soon enough.”

My friends. My dear friends, we all have that little brain inside and within our bigger brains, and you know it’s there, right, but it’s hard to control. It’s that little brain that kicks in when you least expect it and you don’t even realize it’s kicking in. It tells you things, tells you to do things sometimes, and you get so addlepated that sometimes you have no choice but to obey, if it’s reasonable. Yeah? Well, that little brain of mine was screaming like a banshee right then and there, watching her leave. “Tom, you stupid tit! Don’t let her go! Be thou after her! Get thee hence! Anon! Anon!” I shook my head to clear it. Gah, too much Shakespeare overflowing from the big brain into to the little brain.

And what was strange, and kind of cool, is that it looked like her little brain — Gabby’s little brain within her bigger brain — was kicking in as well. How did I know this? Well, because, without me saying even a single word, she stopped at the door. She turned to me, and motioned to an empty table near the window with a tilt of her head. “You busy?” she asked, “I’m not going anywhere for a while.” 

I shrugged, trying desperately to look casual. “Me neither.”

Bluebirds — Tweet Two

 

A/N: I finished Tweet Two in conjunction with Tweet One. Here it is. Enjoy!

Tweets all/no replies

Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: How’s the day off going, @twhiddleston? Who do you think you are, Ferris Bueller?

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @ZacharyLevi. No, man. Abe Frohman. The Sausage King of Chicago. Devastatingly handsome.

 

Gabby had gone to the loo, and I took those few minutes to whip out my iPhone and respond to another one of Zac’s tweets. I couldn’t ignore Zac. He’d hound me in private messages until I put something witty up there. It was a thing we did, the back and forth. Entertainment, you know, on every level. Plus, it was bloody good fun.

I suppose I need to tell you a little about Gabby. I still hadn’t mustered the nerve to ask her surname, but I would. She had me at a disadvantage, that way; already knowing mine. I also hadn’t sussed out whether she knew who I was, or frankly, whether she cared. The arsehole part of me wondered what rock she’d been living under if she didn’t know who I was. But then, the reasonable, humble part of me remembered that I wasn’t exactly a household name… yet.

Anyroad, as I said before, she was nearly of a height to me, which was very tall for a woman. She wasn’t movie star gorgeous by any means, yet her face was very attractive, pretty, pleasant. The rest of her? Slim build, long, dirty blonde hair curled slightly at the ends. Very professional-like despite the fact that she wore flare jeans and a faded Rush 2112 t-shirt, some sort of tattoo peeking out beneath the left sleeve. Cool. As she walked toward the back of the shop I couldn’t help but notice she had a rather nice, rounded bottom and strong thighs. Her arms were toned but not overly so, and her chest was, well, nice. Not huge, but not flat either.

But I digress. As she walked back toward the table, I noticed a slight hitch in her gait. Nothing out of the ordinary or likely noticeable by anyone else, but I was interested, and as an actor, I was a student of people’s behavior. She sat back down at the table, smiled at me, and tore the lid off of her yoghurt cup. As she lifted the spoon, she asked me, “So, what do you do for a living, Thomas William Hiddleston?”

I took a sip of my coffee. “First things first, what’s your surname?” She shot me a look. “Equal footing, and all that.”

She grinned, and turned the yoghurt spoon upside down, dragging the red and white blob across her tongue; something I found strangely exciting. She swallowed, tilted her chin up and declared, “MacKenzie.”

“I knew it!” I blurted. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What makes you say that?” She tilted her head. Damn, that was adorable.

“Your accent.” She looked at me and waved the spoon as if to tell me to continue. “It’s London, but it’s not London. There’s something else in there. Your name’s MacKenzie… so, Scotland, right?” She smiled at me, and I sat back in my chair. I took a sip of my coffee, a smug grin on my face.

She leaned forward. “Not even close.” 

“Ah, one mark against me, then.” I waved my bacon buttie in the air like she did her spoon. “Do tell.”

“I grew up in London. Near Kentish Town. But I studied materials and metallurgical engineering on exchange at the University of Illinois at Champaign, then I got my green card and spent three more years working for the City of Chicago.”

I squinted at her slightly and curved my lips upward, studying her. “Let me guess again.” She took another bite of yoghurt and again swirled her spoon in the air. “Firefighter.” 

Gabby stopped her spoon mid-dunk and raised her eyes to me, stunned. “How… how did you know that?”

I pointed to a spot on my left arm, and gestured toward hers with my eyes. “Tattoo.” She tensed up suddenly and pulled her sleeve down. “It looks like the bottom half of one of those American fire department shields, and says “C.F.D.” on it,” I observed. 

“It does,” she replied, quieter now. I felt as if I was hurtling down a dead-end road, but I continued.

“Do you still?” I asked, “work on a fire brigade?”

“No,” came the reply. “Not for a while. I do fire engineering and fire scene investigations now.” Ooh. Engineering. Smart, this one. I liked that. I pressed on, still hurtling, but I covered the proverbial brake with my proverbial foot, just in case.

“Why?” 

“Why what?” There was that head tilt again.

“Why’d you stop being a firefighter? I mean, it’s such a cool job! You get to ride on the trucks, and carry the hoses,” I was getting excited now, making little motions with my arms and hands as I prattled on, “and go in there full charge and rescue a bunch of frightened kids in one go and…”

She cut me off with a cough and a very deliberate, very loud scrape of the bit of yoghurt at the bottom of her cup. She stared at me, licking the dregs off the spoon, and nearly threw the spoon back in. She shoved the empty cup aside and picked up her coffee, cradling it in both hands. “I stopped because I was injured doing just that.” She took a sip of the coffee and lowered her eyes to the table top.

Scrrreeeeeeeeeeeech! CRASH. Yep, a full head-on impact. Put a stop to that conversation. Shit. I wondered if I’d blown it with her already. Wouldn’t be the first time.

After a long and very awkward moment, she looked up at me, let out a single chuckle, and smiled. “It’s fine, though. I’m fine now.” It took another beat for the smile to reach her eyes. “Your turn, Thomas William Hiddleston. What’s your line of work?”

So, she didn’t know. Wow. That was something new. Something rather fresh, honestly. I was suddenly nervous, like a bloody teenager. I was enjoying myself too much, being this Just Tom that I was in this moment; sitting there in a nondescript Starbucks with one Gabby MacKenzie, engineer and fire investigator; like some everyday bloke, just trying desperately to keep myself from fucking this up and to keep my stupid mouth from driving her away. What if I told her who I was, and she wanted nothing to do with me? What if she thought I was some prat or some braying toff or some spoilt celebrity? What if…

There was a tug at my elbow. “Excuse me, sir?” I looked over to see a boy of about ten. His mother stood behind him, a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he repeated. 

“Yep,” I smiled, “what can I do for you, young man?” I turned in my seat to face him. I chanced a peek over to Gabby, knowing full well what this situation was, and what I would do about it. She just sat there, staring at me, her elbow on the table and her right hand cradling her chin. Her expression was half confusion, half grin. I redirected my attention back to the boy.

“Are you Loki?” The boy asked me. He held a pen and a Starbucks napkin out to me. 

“His name is Mr. Hiddleston, Sethy,” his mother corrected.

I winked at the boy, taking the pen and napkin from him. “Call me Tom, Seth. Mr. Hiddleston’s what my dad’s called, but yes, I did play Loki.” I ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled up at the mom, who introduced herself as Mary. 

I swiveled my eyes in Gabby’s direction again, and her expression had changed to a much more positive one of what… awe? Pride? Yes! Cool. My confidence renewed, I turned around, glanced quickly up at Gabby again, and began writing on the napkin.

“To Seth. Keep all your dreams alive; for they belong to you.” I signed it, “xx Tom Hiddleston.”

I waved goodbye to Seth and Mary and turned again to find Gabby beaming at me, one eyebrow cocked. “My turn to guess,” she grinned and pointed at me. “You’re an actor.”

I shrugged, opening my hands to the ceiling. “Got me on that one.”

She downed the last sip of her coffee, scanned the rest of the shop, and pitched her cup into the waste bin behind me. “I have the distinct feeling you’d rather avoid any more of that actor stuff today.” She gestured toward the door with her head. “Let’s get out of here before that happens again, shall we?”

Bluebirds — Tweet Three

 

Twitter - Profile

Gabby MacKenzie, CEng, IAAI-CFI

@gabbymackcfi

Vulcan Global Fire Engineering, Ltd.

VP – London, UK Operations

735 Tweets 200 Following 250 Followers

Follow

**** 

735 Tweets 201 Following 251 Followers

****

Direct Messages

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston

All Messages Mark All As Read

To Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: Are you getting this?

4m From Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: 10-26. 

To Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: Eh?

Just now From Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: It means: Message received. Probie. :-)

 

“Holy shit, Tom.” I walked with my nose in my phone, laughing at Gabby’s Twitter message, trying to suss out what the hell a ‘probie’ was. I was about to ask her, when I realized she was no longer at my side. I looked around, spotted her, and walked the few steps back to her. She was standing still, staring down at her phone. She looked back up at me; eyes incredibly wide (and incredibly hazel and incredibly haunting with a dark limbal ring around the green that I would kill to have in my own eyes, but I digress yet again). She showed me her phone (a ruddy Android, but I could forgive her that much). The large screen was filled with photos of me, apparently from a Google search. “You’re all over the place.”

I laughed. “You Googled me?” I closed my eyes and bowed my head, shaking it. I opened one eye and peeked back up at her. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, of course!” she said, chuckling. “I mean, don’t you always Google people you’ve just met? Especially, you know… if they’re like, supposed to be famous actors that little kids come up to and ask for autographs and who play Norse gods in the movies and stuff. Of course I had to see for myself!” She looked back down at her phone. I stepped close around behind her and peered over her shoulder at the Samsung phone. (I will digress one more time – maybe — to say, that as the mild breeze wafted through her hair, I was treated to a most delicious scent such that I was compelled to inhale deeply, biting my lower lip.) She tapped the screen with an index finger, and a photo of a shouting, dirty, raggedy, very scruffy, and quite insane-looking Loki from Thor: The Dark World appeared on the screen. “This you on a bad day?” She shuddered, her shoulder tapping slightly against my chest. “Jesus, I wouldn’t want to meet you on a dark lane looking like that. You’re barking.” 

“Well you know,” I laughed, “if your reaction to just a photograph is that visceral, then, professionally, it was a very good day.”

“Heh, I suppose so.” She turned her head over her shoulder and caught me staring at her. I flashed her a toothy grin. She blushed, looked away, looked back again, and away quickly; her shy grin hidden behind a curtain of dark blonde hair. She punched another photo on her screen and showed it to me, tilting her head. “Now, this one’s a knockout,” it was a leather-jerkined, crowned Henry V. She pointed at the photo, “That one there, he’s another story.” Again, with the look, look away, look back, shy grin thing. I swallowed audibly.

With that, I felt my ‘little brain’ start to kick in again. “She finds thee fitting, my lord,” it said. 

My eyes raised heavenward, I mentally responded, “Patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.”

***

We continued walking, companionably, when we came up to my building. She was a few steps ahead of me, and she stopped as well. “This is me,” she shrugged, “thanks for walking me home.”

Confused, I looked up at the building, then back at her. I pointed to the front door with my thumb. “But, I live here.”

She tipped her head, brow furrowed. “No, you don’t. There’re only two flats, and a woman lives upstairs. Emma’s her name.”

I bounded up the steps and pointed to my name on the intercom. Hiddleston. “See? Mine.”

The color suddenly drained from her face. “Then… oh. I get it.” She nodded her head up and down slowly, looking terribly crestfallen. She trudged up the steps and placed her hand on the doorknob. “Emma’s your… girlfriend, then?”

I shook my head, trying very hard not to grin. “Nope.”

“Your flatmate?”

“Nope.” 

She sighed. “Ah, ok. Wife, then.” She turned the handle and opened the door, shielding herself from my view. “Understood. Well, I s’pose I’ll see you ar….”

I grasped the edge of the door with two hands, pulled it open further, and poked my head around it, grinning like a fool. “Sis-ter,” I said, deliberately. Thank God she laughed. “She’s my younger sister.” I opened the door the rest of the way and ushered Gabby inside, closing the heavy oak quietly behind us. We were alone in the foyer. “See, I’ve been gone away for a long stretch, working and things. I’d asked Emma to come over now and then to check in for me, tidy up, get my post, water whatever of my plants that are still living and that I haven’t managed to murder, that sort of thing.” She laughed again, and something… I don’t know what, but something came over me. Maybe it was the little brain again, but I went with it, winking at her. “I think, though, that I’ll have to have a very serious brother to sister talk with Emma. I’m a little upset with her, you see. She never told me…um, she uh,” I coughed, starting to lose my nerve.

And the little brain said, “say it you blithering idiot, say it, say it, say it, fool, say it, or I will.”

So, I did. “Emma never told me the woman in the downstairs flat was so beautiful.” I coughed again, looking down at my shoes. I glanced up and she was beaming at me, chewing a little bit on her bottom lip. She took breath to speak, but I beat her to it. “So, um… yeah. I’ve lived here three years. Why haven’t I seen you before?”

She blushed. “I’ve only been here six months. I just moved back to London from America to open the Vulcan office. The company found me this flat.” She leaned against the wall, her legs set slightly wide. In a swift movement, she bent over and pulled up at her left knee, bringing her foot closer to the wall. She cringed a little.

“Leg cramp?” 

“Nah,” she waved me off, “I’m okay.”

“Yoga’ll do wonders for that sort of thing, you know.” I pointed at her leg, and then to mine. “I haven’t had a charley horse in years.”

“Yoga,” she repeated thoughtfully. She looked up at me, suddenly panicked. She reached into her pocket and pulled her phone out. “Bloody hell!” She pushed herself off of the wall, grabbed her bag, and started back out the door. “Listen, Tom. I’ve got to go. Will you be home in about an hour? Will you be here? I’ll be late if I don’t go now.” 

“Go? Now? Where?”

“Class,” she said, hurried, but she stopped to quickly explain. She placed a hand on my chest and looked at me intently, apologetically, almost. “I teach tae kwon do sparring to my friend’s adult students. Her place is a few blocks from here, but I’m seriously going to be late and let down about twenty people if I don’t move my arse now.”

“Tae kwon…teach…,” I started, “are you like, a… a black belt or something?” 

“Third degree, yeah. See you later.” she replied, and closed the door behind her. 

I stood there, utterly gobsmacked, staring at the chewed-up back of the ancient oak door. “Okay, Tom,” the little brain said. “You thought you were cool, didn’t you? But this one, she just out cooled you by a million to one.” I shook my head, my heart racing. “Engineer – smart. Firefighter – braver than shit. Black belt – could probably kick your ass into Camden Town if you brassed her off,” the little brain rebuked. “You’re out of your league, mate.”

I grabbed my rucksack, raced upstairs, and nearly flew into my flat. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and dashed off a number of text messages, including one to Gabby to knock on my door when she returned from her class. Throwing the phone aside in my study, I shimmied out of my cardi, tossed it over the back of by armchair, and I plopped down in front of my computer. The Mac fired up right away (bless it). I opened Firefox and clicked on the Google toolbar in the top right corner. Yes, my friends. I was about to Google Gabby MacKenzie. She was interested enough to Google me; and I was certainly interested enough to Google her. As they say, two can play at this game. 

The search results came up. Vulcan Global Fire Engineering, Ltd. I remembered that from her Twitter profile. I clicked on it, and perused the “about us” section. I had no idea what half of the stuff meant, so I moved on, clicking the “our professionals,” link the one for “Gabrielle Leigh MacKenzie, M.S. Eng., CEng, IAAI-CFI.” Gabrielle Leigh, eh? Lots of initials after the name. Nice. Very nice. The rest of the page loaded and her photo came up. My eyebrows rose, I leaned forward in my chair, and I could almost feel the iris muscles widen the pupils in my eyes. Gabby seriously cleaned up well. She was even more attractive in light makeup and her hair gathered neatly behind her head. It was the business suit that did me in, though. Wow. Again, not like… incredibly movie-star, Angelina Jolie type wow; but that is never what I look for in a woman. Gabby’s attractiveness wasn’t in her features. It was in her confidence; and she exuded a boatload of confidence in this photo.

I clicked out of that and moved back to Google. Not much else but her Twitter account, a relatively empty Facebook account (which I added as a friend), and a few older American news articles, from about three years ago. I clicked on one (just a date and page number in Google), and it took me to a Chicago Sun-Times article: “Two Firefighters Dead; One Critical After Explosion in CHA High-Rise Fire.”

I read the article and almost immediately, I saw her name amongst the text, “Firefighter Gabrielle L. Mackenzie.” The more I read, though, the more I felt a hateful prickle behind the eyes. The photographs of the fire scene were ghastly, chaotic, unreal, almost. As I read even further, there came a fullness in my chest, an unpleasant pressure. I swallowed against it. I just kept thinking of Gabby, at Starbucks, nearly shutting me out and shutting down when I’d asked her why she stopped being a firefighter. “You stupid git,” I said aloud. “She probably watched her friends die.” I swallowed, again, hard. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. I had no idea the extent of her injuries; the article didn’t say, but it must have been terrible for the reporter to use phrases such as, “clinging to life,” and “critical condition,” and “emergency surgery.” 

I finished the article and closed the Mac, slowly, wishing I had never read what I’d read or seen what I’d seen, but it couldn’t be undone. I don’t imagine that was the way she wanted me, or anyone else for that matter, to find out about her injuries. I imagine that, if things went well, she would have told me herself, in time, in private, in her own way. It was obviously a sore spot, something she did not appreciate revisiting or reliving, for that matter. But no. Like a tit, I Googled her, and I read this fucking article, and now I know. I’d have to tell her I know. Lying’s not an option. I wondered if it would really matter. But then, things started to make sense a little bit. The hitch in her walk, the pain in her leg – that must be all that’s left over from the accident, right? Well, if that was all, and if she was okay, as she said she was at Starbucks, then, maybe my finding out is not such a bad thing after all. Couldn’t have been all that bad if she still teaches martial arts, right? 

“I mean,” I repeated to myself, “don’t you always Google people you’ve just met?”


	2. Tweets Four through Six

Bluebirds — Tweet Four  
Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleson: Song of the day: “Closer To the Heart.” Rush. 

 

 

An hour later, Gabby sent a response to my earlier text. “I’m back but I’m rather sweaty very red-faced, and incredibly smelly. I’ll come up after I’ve cleaned up a bit. Anything urgent?”

I replied. “Nope.” My stomach growled. I had a thought, and texted her again. “Lunch?”

I started to worry when five minutes passed without a response, but then she texted: “Got it covered. Stopped at Pret. Hope you like turkey and avo.”

If she wasn’t already awesome, she was at that very moment. I replied. “Perfect, but make it quick, woman. Now! I’m bloody hungry.”

Her response: “Bugger off.” ;-) Then she texted, “Hee. I’ll be up in 30.”

A few minutes later my Twitter notifications pinged over. I switched over to Twitter on my phone, and read. Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: “Nice song @twhiddleston. It was very sweet of you to notice.” 

Yes. She read my Twitter. YES! No woman wears a Rush 2112 t-shirt, especially one my age, unless she were truly a Rush fan. Score one for the Hiddles! I was thankful I remembered to set my account to notify for Gabby’s responses. I almost Tweeted her back, but I wasn’t quite ready for some of the Hiddlestoners to a) find out about her, and b) start following her. I would have to prepare Gabby for something like that, first, cool as it was.

In spite of my tiny victory, I was nervous for her to come to my flat — like a freaking schoolboy waiting for a girl to come to his room for the first time. But then, it’d been quite a while since I had a woman other than a relative in my flat. Pathetic, I know, but life was life as it was for me, and romantic encounters were not always a first priority. Until maybe, now.

While Gabby was gone, I thought back on our conversations in the coffee shop and on the walk home. She told me at one point that she liked live theater; she’d worked lighting at an outdoor summer theater in Wisconsin while she was at Uni. Problem was, she was more of a Sam Shepard type girl than a Shakespearean, but a start was a start. I could work on that.

I’d made some phone calls — formulating plans in her absence. I booked a meal at an Indian fusion place near Picadilly (she said she still hadn’t found a decent vindaloo since moving back — and I knew just the place), and I actually went online and purchased tickets to a West End show in which one friend was acting, and another close friend was deeply (meaning, financially) involved. But, I did it without phoning either of them or using any of my contacts. Just Tom. Remember? Just Tom. So far, so good.

Yes, my friends. I was fixing to ask Gabby on a proper date. Tonight. I know it was drastic and a little dramatic and a little flighty on my part, but my time off was short. I’d be going back into work full bore in a fortnight and I didn’t want to waste a minute of getting to know Gabby better.

***

Gabby knocked on my door 30 minutes later almost to the second. I opened the door and couldn’t help myself but look her up and down. She’d put her hair in a high ponytail, and had put on a little makeup. She wore a pair of flare jeans in a shade darker than her earlier ones, and in much better shape. They hugged her hips perfectly and were fitted to just above the knee. Damn, those thighs. Damn. She wore a cotton shirt in a pretty shade of pink, an iridescent blue scarf and a black leather short jacket.

In a word, gorgeous.

And in a few more words, making me thankful that I’d changed into a pair of nice jeans, a white button-down and a black waistcoat. 

I suspect she had the same idea I had. Impromptu Date Night. Yikes.

She handed over the Pret bag, I thanked her profusely, and led her to the table. The lunch was wonderful, for being Pret, but I was starting to feel as if I could eat the cling film and it would be just as delicious if she were sitting across from me. 

Gabby stood and started gathering up the trash from our meal, throwing wrappers and napkins into the bag. “Oh, no you don’t.” I said, and took the refuse from her, chucking it in the bin under the kitchen sink. She followed me into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. I straightened up from the trash bin and turned around to face her, leaning against the opposite counter.

“So,” I said, sucking through my teeth. 

“So?” she replied, grinning madly. She crossed her arms against her chest, making her breasts perk out just slightly. Jesus Christ.

I ran my hands through my hair and scratched out the back. She laughed a little, and the little brain started talking to me again. “Ask her, just bloody ask her.”

She laughed some more. “You want to ask me out,” she grinned, “don’t you.” I scratched at my hair again. Damn my nerves. Confidence in front of the cameras and in interviews and on the red carpet is one thing; confidence in asking a beautiful woman on a first date is quite another.

Little brain said, “DO IT!”

“Yes, erm…. yes. I’d like to ask you if you would please to go on a proper date with me. Tonight. Dinner and theatre at the West End. If, um. If you’d like….”

“Yes,” she interjected, but I kept on.

“…that sort of thing, I mean.” I plucked at a loose thread on my waistcoat. “I’d thought we could do Indian at Masala Zone by Picadilly, then head to the West….”

“Yes, Tom, that would be….” she tried again.

“… End and pick up our tickets at the kiosk… I bought already them you know, didn’t phone up anyone…”

“Yes. I’d like….”

“…and we can um, catch The Curious Incident of the…”

“Yes, Tom,” she repeated. 

“… Dog in the Nighttime at the…” I paused, her laughter having become near hysterical. She was doubled over at the stomach, the giggles nearly out of control. “Apollo….” I stared at her. “Did… did you say, yes?”

She looked up at me, the hilarity subsiding. “Four times.” She smiled sweetly at me then, her eyes twinkling a little. She pushed off from the counter, and walked toward me. She placed her hand over my heart, leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. “Yes,” she whispered. “A proper date would be fantastic.” 

I’m dead cert that I blushed. The spot where she kissed me tingled. I placed a hand over it, grinned like a loon, realized my slip, and coughed. “I um. I booked us for the Zone at six.” She nodded. I looked at the clock on the wall. “We have four hours or so to kill, what do you want to do?”

She turned her gaze to me, still very close. “I’d like to know what made Loki so barking mad in that movie.” 

“What,” I pulled back, “In The Dark World?” She nodded. “Yeah, I forgot you said you hadn’t seen that.” She pulled back and walked into my living room. I followed. “Why not, though?” I wondered if I was once again treading on dangerous ground, here, knowing what I knew, but I pressed on. “The Thor movies and The Avengers were big in the box office. Why didn’t you see them, or even hear of Loki?

She sat down on my couch, crossed her ankles, and tucked her legs off to the side. “Remember I told you I was injured on the job… firefighting?”

“Yeah,” I replied, sitting down beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

She turned and looked me directly in the eye. “I suppose I should tell you. You’ve probably already read the articles.” I looked at her sheepishly and nodded. “I figured. I would have done the same.” She patted my hand and I sighed inwardly in relief. “No worries, Tom. Really. Well,” she started, “I’ve been out of the loop culture-wise for about the last two years with the exception of the occasional book or odd telly. See, since my accident, I’ve been in and out of hospitals, had three surgeries, grafts, months and months of physio, gait training, you name it.”

Jesus, I thought, so it was bad. Wait, what? “Gait training? What’s that?”

She used her back foot to push her front foot forward. Keeping her eyes on me, she reached down and pulled her trouser leg up a few inches, showing me her leg. Only, there was no leg. It was a metal bar attached to a plastic molded foot. A prosthetic. No bloody wonder. She looked down at the leg, then up at me again and there was, something… fear, maybe, worry, perhaps… in her eyes. “I had to learn how to walk all over again.”

Bluebirds — Tweet Five  
Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Did you know UNICEF helps child victims of land mines by providing and fitting prosthetic limbs?http://www.unicef.org/graca/mines.htm

 

A million questions rushed through my mind, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep them from gushing out through my mouth. That little brain I keep telling you about — you have one, too, you know — went, very quickly, through some very distinct scenarios. I could either:

a. Recoil in shock, say “oh my God, how ghastly horrible!” and bite my knuckles;

b. Give Gabby a sad, sympathetic, hangdog look and say to her, “oh, darling. Oh, darling, I am so, so sorry, you poor dear, you pitiable thing. Here, let me take care of you; would you like some tea and biscuits?”

or

c. Peer at Gabby’s prosthetic leg with keen interest, tap a few times on the carbon fibre cup with my fingernail, look up at her eyes and say simply, “Cool.”

Yeah, I thought c was the better option, with some modifications, of course.

She stretched her leg out in front of her, and pulled the jeans all the way up to just above her knee. I tapped at the shiny black connector cup that rested just below her knee joint, looked up into her eyes and said, “That’s amazing.” 

She grinned. “It’s updated. I got this one just before I came back here. It’s a completely new design. I’m still getting used to it, but I think it’s the best one I’ve had.”

I shook my head, chuckling. “I had no idea. Here, I thought you were having leg cramps all day and were just trying to walk off a bad workout or something like that.”

“I was!” She replied. I slipped in the rain during my run yesterday and twisted my knee a little. It killed!”

“Run?” My interest doubled. “You… run?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “just about every day. It helps keep my remaining leg strong.” 

“Do you want to go running with me tomorrow morning?” I blurted out. Mouth before brain.

“What’s your personal best?” she asked, winking.

“Is this a challenge?” I joked. 

Surprisingly, she nodded. “Yep. Consider it a challenge.”

Blimey. “Well, then,” I rubbed at the scruff on my chin in mock thoughtfulness. “I’m more of a distance runner than a sprinter, but I can knock out a 5k sub 20.”

She pointed at me. “You’re on. The one who bonks has to buy breakfast.”

We spent the better part of an hour in this conversation. Gabby told me that the loss of her leg did interfere with her martial arts studies, but she was already a second degree when she was injured, and did most of the work for her third degree as part of a physio program to toughen up the remainder of her leg, her hips, and her upper body. Apparently, it worked.

“I can teach sparring, and I can judge events, but I’m not allowed to compete at tournaments anymore.”

“I can see that.” I nodded, sagely. “Have to be very careful, I suppose.”

Confusion came over her features. “Who would have to be careful?”

I shrugged. “Your opponent, of course.” She smiled wide and shook her head.

“No,” she pointed at herself. “I would have to be careful. See,” she turned to me, “with my leg I have a significant advantage over my opponents, especially if I have enough knee and thigh strength to accurately place a kick.”

“But….” I said, flummoxed.

With that, I learned that the average human leg weighs about 5 and a half kilos. Her leg, on the other hand, weighed only about 1.8 kilos. Less weight equals less effort on the motor muscles, and therefore — higher speed. When she told me this, my little brain formulated the horrible image of Gabby firing off an impact to the middle of my chest or even worse — to the back of my head — with what was essentially a two kilo high-speed piston made of metal and carbon fibre. 

Yeah, I could see the advantage.

Now, my friends, I would not want you to think that Gabby and I spent four hours talking about her. She wouldn’t allow it. I tried, believe me, as talking about myself (other than in an interview or another professional setting) is painful. Painful! 

But, I think, in this case, talking about herself was more painful for Gabby. Truly, the one question I did not ask her, and would not ask her, is this: “What happened?” I mean, I knew generally what happened - the fire, the explosion, her friends dying — but as to how it happened, why, and what the aftermath and consequences were? I’d let her tell me those details when she wanted to, considering even if she wanted to.

After some time, I found myself sitting closer to Gabby on my couch, my arm now on the back cushions, dangerously close to the back of her head; such that I could just move my index finger and twirl a bit of hair around it.

That. Close.

There was a quiet moment, a lull in the conversation. She sighed, it sounded like a very content sigh, and she pulled her right leg up on the couch, tucking it under her left. She leaned back — her head now fully against my hand, and turned to me. “So, tell me what films you’ve done. Maybe I have seen them and I just don’t remember.” I flinched a little in mock insult. She twisted slightly and jabbed at my chest with her left hand. “You know what I mean.”

“Well, we’ve established that you haven’t seen any of the Marvel films I was in. Those were the big ones. What about ‘Deep Blue Sea’?”

She pulled back, incredulous. “That horrid shark movie? That was out ages ago! Aren’t you a little young for that?”

I burst out in laughter, clutching at my chest. “No! Oh my god! No. No, there was…. another one…. Definitely not… a… oh, Jesus… shark movie. Okay.” I got myself back under control. “Okay. No, let’s tick that one off the list, then.” She shrugged. “What about Midnight in Paris.”

She lifted her index finger, shook it in my face and said, “Yes! Yes, I did see that one… Woody Allen movie with the funnier Wilson brother, right?” She chewed her finger. “What’s his name?”

“Owen.” I responded. “So, you did see that one?”

She squinted, studying my face. “Yeah, my brother and I watched it about a month ago and… wait a minute. Let me see something.” She sat up, turned and reached for my head, asking permission with her eyes. I gave it, and oh, I gave it willingly. 

She moved her hands into my hair, parting the curls in the centre and smoothing the unruly mass down one way and the other, pulling it gently down and back against my skull. Her wrists were right in line with my nose and I could smell her perfume. Light. Flowery. Just a hint of something darker… sexier.

I closed my eyes to the sensation, and breathed her scent in. I suddenly wanted more of that. I wanted it constantly, and moreover, I wanted to wake up in the morning to it.

She moved one hand down a little and touched my face, ever so softly. Her breath hitched a little, and suddenly I was unsure if she was still trying to suss out my role — or if the touch meant something else. I wanted it to mean something else. I did. I really did.

Chill out, little brain. Chill out. Only known her for seven hours, you know. Can’t take a girl to bed only seven hours after meeting her — as much as she may seem to want you and as interesting as she seems to find you and as much as you’re obviously attracted to her and as intriguing as she is and Jesus Christ just look at her… as great as her bre….

“Fitzgerald!” She shouted. “You were Fitzgerald!”

I coughed. “Um, yes!” Recovering, I grabbed a stub of pencil off my table, and stuck it, cigarette-like, into my mouth. Mustering up my 1920’s American accent, I said with a wink, “Can we not discuss my personal life in public?!”

***

Ultimately, Gabby asked me to show her on video what I thought was my best work. Remembering her rather effusive reactions from the Google photos earlier in the day, I eschewed showing her The Dark World and my frighteningly insane Loki; choosing instead to show her The Hollow Crown - Henry V. 

Gotta give a girl what she wants, yeah? After all, she did call Henry “a knockout.”

And you know what else? I think I caught her sighing a little bit during the Catherine and Henry kiss. Just a little. Well, maybe… maybe I sighed a little bit, too.

***

Bluebirds — Tweet Six  
Tweets all/no replies

Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: Pardon my French, but @twhiddleston is so tight, you could stick a lump of coal up his ass & in 2 wks you’d have a diamond.

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Ferris Bueller (aka @ZacharyLevi) you’re my herrrrrooooo. 

 

I sighed, setting my phone down on the table after tapping the “Tweet” button. It was nearly an hour before our dinner booking, and Gabby had gone down to her flat to quickly freshen up a bit before our… gasp… date.

Shortly after I came back from a brief errand, I had a phone call from Zac. He was in Spain filming some madcap beach-side holiday romantic comedy (of which I was insanely jealous). Apparently, his filming day had ended and he was settling down with a glass of likely very nice Spanish red wine and his computer.

“Sooooo, duuuuuuuude,” Zac intoned. Damn. I knew that tone of voice, it was that ‘I know something you don’t know and you’re not going to like it’ voice. 

“So, what’s up Zac, spill it, mate.”

He laughed. “Well, it sure looks to me like you’re enjoying your time off.”

Oh, shit. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, Hidds… who’s the girl?”

Double oh shit. Best to play dumb. ”What girl?”

“You’re a crap liar, Hidds, you know that?” Yes, I knew that. Bugger. I didn’t respond. After a few more beats Zac said, “She’s cute, man. Very cute. Where’d you meet her?”

Damn. I exhaled, puffing out my cheeks. “Ok, out with it. Who has the photos?” I asked, resignedly.

“Mail,” Zac responded. “Online. UK tab, about um… ten stories down on the left hand column.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Bloody barking shit. Daily Fucking Mail. I trudged to my desk and fired up the Mac. “Hang on a sec,” I said to Zac, “hang on, let me have a look.”

“Where’s Luke?” Zac inquired. “I’m surprised this got past Mr. Super Publicist.”

I clicked to the Daily Mail web page and started scanning the column. “He’s on holiday in the Caymans.”

“Crap timing, man.” 

I couldn’t have agreed more. “Hold on a mo,” I said. I clicked on the photo. It was one of Gabby and myself as we were walking past the Tube station on the way home from Starbucks. It was when she was showing me the photos of myself on her phone. I was standing very close behind her shoulder. It looked… cozy. There was another of us simply walking side by side, Gabby smiling at me, looking deceptively affectionate. 

I bit my bottom lip and shook my head. The mobile nearly slipped out from between my ear and shoulder. “Bugger.” I scanned the rather short, rather poorly written story surrounding the photos. 

It started out as “Tom Hiddleston was out and about in London today with a mystery girl…” blah blah fucking blah… Then there were little bits about my upcoming projects and past work and about Comic-Con other shit to fill in and disguise the fact that they simply wanted to publish the what they thought were prurient and potentially scandalous photos. 

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, cringing.

“So, man,” Zac said, “who’s the hottie?”

I thought carefully about how to answer this. Zac was a friend. I wouldn’t lie to him, but to be honest, I really didn’t actually know who Gabby was to me. I knew who I believe I wanted her to be, but it was far too soon. Ultimately, truth, or kind of sort of truth, won out.

“She helped me out of a rather nasty predicament this morning, so I bought her coffee and walked her home.” I purposefully left out the following additional facts: a) we had lunch together; b) we’d spent the afternoon together and c) we were getting ready to spend the evening together; not to mention d) that I wanted to spend much, much, much more time together.

“Ah,” Zac intoned, knowingly, “It’s about time you got some girlie action, dude. Sooooooo, Tom, my friend, when the hell are you gonna bang….”

“Zac! Okay! Stop right there, please.” I cleared my throat, and before he could continue his lewd thought, I said, tersely. ”Goodbye, now, Zachary.”

“Wait, wait, wait, man!” Zac interjected. “Seriously, though. You look happy in that shot, and if this is something more than,” he put on a fake British accent, “helping you out of a raaaaather naaaaasty predicament,” then back in his own dialect, “then more power to you. I just thought I’d give you fair warning that the Mail tagged you.”

I tried to bring the smile on my face into my voice. “Thanks, Zac. I appreciate it. Bless you, my good friend.” Pausing, I added, “I only hope she understands. I’ll tell her about it over dinner tonight.”

“Dinner tonight? Meaning? I fucking KNEW it! Woooo! Yes!” Zachary whooped and hollered, such that I had to move the phone an arm’s length away from my ear. 

I brought the phone close to my mouth and said, flatly. “Goodbye, Zachary,” and rang off over his continued vocal celebrations.

Forty-five seconds later, I got the Twitter message from Zac, and responded accordingly.

*****

Ten minutes after that, I checked my appearance one last time in the mirror, and tried again to tame the mass of curls that was my hair. I still refused, on principle, to goop up my mop today. Satisfied, I exited my flat and bounded down the steps. I inhaled a very deep breath and knocked on her door.

And that breath was summarily taken away.

Gabby stood before me, wearing a long-sleeved, scoop-neck, dark green sheath dress that fit her in … all the um… right places, and reached to just above her knee. I looked down and saw that she had changed out her high-tech prosthetic for a more realistic — in fact, a very realistic — looking piece, worn under a set of black hose with a nice pair of heels. If I hadn’t known any better, and if it weren’t for the slight bumps and bulges in the fabric around her knee, I may not have been able to tell the difference. 

“Oh. Wow,” I said. She smiled at me, half surprised, half flattered. ”I mean. You look amazing.” I presented her with a single peach rose. Thank God for Carmichael’s on the corner.

She blushed, hiding her face in the rose she was clearly enjoying. ”Thank you.” She winked at me. “You look pretty dashing yourself, my good sir.” Gabby ushered me inside her flat. ”Come in, please.” 

Her flat was very simple, very utilitarian, and very spartan compared to my cluttered hole. Her brown leather couch and chair were set off by a large screen television hanging from the wall, with little other accouterments in the living space - no trinkets, no art, no plants. Her dining room boasted little more than a glass table with black iron trimmings and supports with matching chairs, and a glass hutch and buffet. Her flat was laid out similar to mine with the exception of the lack of a loft, which mine had - benefits of having the upper flat.

It was nice but it looked a bit… sad. Lonely. Vacant. I shook myself out of my feng shui reverie, however, realizing that Gabby was a very pragmatic, very busy woman who had only occupied the flat for a mere six months. Not nearly enough time unbox all the ‘stuff’ to make this place home.

Gabby put the rose in a bud vase, filled it with water, and placed it with a flourish in the middle of her dining table. She stood back and smiled beautifully. “Just what this boring, empty, place needed. Thank you, Tom.”

Spooky, that, being on a wavelength with her. But cool. 

As she donned her short leather jacket, she gave me a peck on the cheek, and suggested, “Shall we go?”

***

Dinner was … amazing; and I felt a certain pride in introducing Gabby to a place where she could — finally — enjoy a decent, and very hot, vindaloo. 

Conversation was varied, interesting, and unique. We spent equal time continuing to get to know each other. I learned that firefighting runs in Gabby’s family.

“Yeah,” she said between bites, “my dad, grandfather, two uncles, and two of my cousins are all on fire brigade.” She pointed her fork at me. “What about your family? Other than your sister Emma who does a better job taking care of your plants than you do.” 

I shot her a sour-puss glare. ”Ha ha, very droll.” I intoned. ”Emma’s my kid sister. I’ve an older sister, Sarah. My mum lives in Oxford, and my dad’s a scientist, big pharma and all that.” I twiddled with my dessert fork. ”Mum and dad split when I was thirteen, right in the middle of an exceptionally hard year at Eton,” I shrugged. ”Needless to say, I became a bit of a little shit as a teenager — rebellious but nothing horrid, nothing criminal. I just buried myself in rugby, is all.”

She tilted her head. ”But if you played rugby then… “

“Caught the acting bug at Cambridge and it just stuck. Had to give up rugby.” I scraped sauce off my platter with a bit of naan and stuffed it in my mouth. After I chewed and swallowed, I continued. “One of the hardest choices I ever had to make.”

We ordered a few more drinks and some gulab jamun for dessert. The waiter brought the small, doughey spheres, swimming in a dish of honeyed syrup. Gabby immediately jabbed at one with her fork, daintily cut it in half, and took a bite.

The look of ecstasy on her face — it burned itself into my mind. 

It was an expression my little brain was begging, pleading to see again… over and over and over again. Little brain said, “Damn, if that’s what her face looks like after eating just a little bite of sugar, then I wonder what her face looks like when she….”

I shook my head violently, pretending to sneeze to cover my slip. 

“Oh! Gesundheit,” Gabby said, offhand.

“Danke,” I squeaked, coughed, and then said again, “um… danke.”

Still shaken, I jabbed at a dripping pastry and shoved the whole thing in my mouth. It wasn’t until I had done so that I realized the size of it. It filled my entire mouth, and I was compelled to take large, lumbering chews. My face must have been horribly contorted doing so, because Gabby immediately exploded in waves of laughter. 

“Tom!” She giggled, “what the bloody hell are you playing at?”

“I d’nno,” I mumbled, my mouth still full. “Look’d so bl’dy good.” I swallowed deliberately and beamed up at Gabby, a closed-mouthed grin on my face. ”Mmmmmm mm.” 

Gabby’s laughter subsided quite suddenly. She stared, fixated on my lips. Slowly, she reached a hand toward my face. I froze, unable to move, because before I knew it, her index finger was gliding over the skin at the corner of my mouth. She pulled her hand away and showed me a glob of syrup, glistening on the end of her finger.

She grinned at me, wickedly, and turned her finger, teasing toward the center of my mouth. I licked my lips and felt my breathing become heavier and just that little bit faster. Little Brain decided it wanted some fun against my better judgment, against my upbringing, and against better conventions of first-date gallantry.

I leaned forward, just a mere few millimetres, and kissed the drop of honey from her digit, taking the taste of it, and a tiny taste of Gabby’s skin, into my mouth.

We stared at each other, half in shock, half in… what, lust? Oh, Christ, for a long, long, very long beat — interrupted only when the waiter coughed for attention as he asked if we wanted any more drinks, and presented me with the bill.

Jesus, it was going to be a long night


	3. Tweets Seven through Nine

Bluebirds - Tweet Seven  
Tweets all/no replies

Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: Wondrous day. Found a wallet and its owner, met my neighbor, found a good vindaloo and got snapped by a tabloid. Couldn’t repeat that if I tried.

Jonathan MacKenzie: @pyromanjohnny: @gabbymaccfi Nice photos, coz. If that arsehole lays a finger on you I’ll murdelize him. *evil grin* xx

Gabby Mackenzie @gabbymaccfi: @pyromanjohnny. Bugger off, Johnny, I hold my own. xx

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @gabbymaccfi @pyromanjohnny. Yikes!

 

I signed my name to the credit card receipt, and placed it back into the black folder. I set it aside on its end and turned to face Gabby. How best to put this. Out with it. “Um, we… I mean, you and I… we were photographed today,” the head tilt - Jesus, she did it again - but I went on, “on… on our way home from Starbucks.” Her eyes widened. “It’s in the Daily Mail online already, and I think the Sun has picked it up, too,” I spat out quickly.

Wide eyes, then eyebrows, and even her hairline seemed to move upward, lengthening her face in surprise. “You’re joking,” she said. When I didn’t answer, she continued, “Wow. You’re not joking.” I shook my head. “That was quick!” 

She grabbed her phone and started tapping away frantically. She stopped, there was a beat, a breath, a moment as she looked over the photographs on the webpage. “Well, you’re right, you are, there we are.” She looked up, a bit startled, maybe. “Are…are you really that famous?” She lay the phone screen side up on the table.

I shrugged and reached out to poke at her phone with my index finger, turning it gently this way and that atop the table. “I never know from day to day, to be honest. Lately, because we’ve just opened a film a few months ago and’ve been doing press tours and premieres, yeah. But it’s weird, you know,” I paused, “I went to Africa about two years ago on a charity trip, and not a single press junket picked that up. Not that I cared, personally, for me, but it would have been nice for UNICEF to get some broader awareness. However,” I raised a finger, “I walk along Sloane Square with a beautiful woman, and bam. It makes the ruddy news. Figure that.”

Gabby turned toward me and leaned an elbow on the table. Her eyes roved over the other patrons and empty spaces of the restaurant, and then she turned and glanced out the window. “Do you think… do you think they’re photographing us now?”

“Nah,” I replied. “This is SoHo. It crawls with celebrities, and I’m not important enough. They’re probably over at one of the pubs focusing on trying to catch Jude Law on a bender or one of the McGann brothers chatting up a woman or something.” Gabby laughed, thank God, but her face went serious again. “Are you… worried about it? Being photographed, I mean, with me?”

She tilted her head — the other way this time — and sucked air in through her teeth. “Nooooo,” she intoned, “it’s not that. If anything it may be good for my business.” She smiled.

“Well, that’s always a bonus, I suppose.”

She nodded, suddenly quiet, and then frowned. ”What I’m more concerned about, Tom, is you.”

That was a first. My last girlfriend - who was more of a celebrity than I was at the time - was so bloody paranoid about being photographed with me outside of events and red carpets that we hardly went anywhere that hadn’t been planned or vetted by her publicist. It was boring, irritating, and asinine, and yes, I took it personally. Very personally. I would as soon eat Luke’s cowboy boots than let him control my life the way her publicist did. But once again… I digress.

“I don’t understand.” I blinked. “What about me?”

She set her hands flat on the table. “Well, you’re a celebrity, right?

I nodded. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I guess sometimes, not always, it depends on… but like I said I….”

She held up one of her hands, stopping my babble. “And you have an image to uphold, right? 400,000 plus fans to make happy? Studios and powers that be to answer to? Yeah?”

I started to speak. “My bloody image and fans and studios be damned if I can’t…” but she stopped me yet again, with the other hand.

“Now, you may not know this yet, but I don’t give a tit about what other people think of me, never have,” she laughed, “independent, that’s me, annoyingly so, which is why I’m going to ask you a question, okay? Otherwise I’m just selfish and careless enough of a shit that I may not ever realize or may not ever know. I don’t want to assume, I don’t want to overstep my bounds and I certainly don’t want to interfere in things, so I’m just going to ask — so don’t say anything until I finish, okay?” 

I nodded assent, and she continued, palms once again on the table. 

“What I want to make sure of, Tom, before we set foot outside this restaurant, and before we walk out in the square,” she pointed out the window, ”with all those people out there — with all those cameras and video phones and possible paparazzi out there is this….”

She looked down at her leg, her hand kneading the thigh muscle above her prosthesis. She raised her head and met my eyes, her own shining with a heretofore unseen intensity, and maybe a little sadness, ”…am I… I mean, Tom, am I someone you would feel comfortable being photographed with, because I’m not completely daft, you see, and I would understand completely if I’m not… that kind of someone.” Her gaze dropped back down to her leg and she smoothed her skirt over it.

Jesus. Christ. I stared at her for a good, long time, in utter disbelief. Two distinct reactions began to bubble up from deep within my little brain. The first was for me to squint incredulously at Gabby, get a little angry, and say, “What the hell are you on about? Of course you bloody are!” 

But I didn’t. This was tempered by the second reaction, and the second was the realization that — she got it. She got it. She understood. Blimey, but she understood. She may not have realized she did, or may not have experienced having flashbulbs go off in her face without her consent, or having her name screamed at her from a million compass points, or having been judged from the armchair and criticized for what she’s drinking or who she’s with or having a shoelace untied or a hair out of place, but she got it. 

What she didn’t get, and this made me a little sad — is me. She didn’t get me. You know. Just Tom; or the Just Tom I wanted to be. She didn’t get that I would rather choose my own path than worry about what the Daily Mail thinks; but that was fine. She was simply protecting me, and I think she thought she was protecting something important to me. And I think —I think I loved… loved? Yeah, loved that just a little bit about her.

So, I opted for a third reaction. I leaned across the table, my own palm splayed on the surface, and touched the tip of my middle finger to hers. I smiled and looked up at her, her beautiful, blushing, confident, yet apprehensive face. “You are absolutely someone I would be proud have with me in a photograph. Any photograph, any time, any day, any where.” I tapped the back of her hand with my index finger, stood up and plucked her coat from the peg on the wall. I held her jacket it open for her, nodded toward the window, and said, ”Once more into the breach, dear Gabby, once more.”

***

I walked back from the loo to find Gabby waiting for me at the restaurant door, tapping away at her phone. She smiled up at me, and shoved the device back in her bag. “My cousin just tweeted me,” she said with a smile, “he saw the photos in the Mail, apparently.”

“Yeah? And what did he say?”

“He said if you lay a finger on me, he’ll murdelize you.” She made cute little air quotes around the word, ‘murdelize.’

“Eh,” I waved a hand, “I can take ‘im. Bring him on.” I pulled my coat on and placed a hand on the door.

As we walked out into the open air, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through some photographs. She landed on a photo and showed it to me. “Tom, meet Jonathan.”

Holy shit. Dude was strapping, arms and neck veins bulging out of a blue fire brigade t-shirt, arms folded across his chest. ”Bloke’s bigger than Hemsworth,” I mumbled. Gabby grinned a Cheshire at me. “Yeah,” I breathed, “best behave myself, then.”

***

Although the play had been around for years, I’d just never had the time to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. I’d read the book, and knew the film was coming out soon (damn that I wasn’t involved in it), and Haddon’s story was brilliant. I’d been dying to see the more recent stage production for the creativity of the directing and the sheer talent of the actors, as well as the fact that one of my best mates, Ben, was one of the producers. 

Unfortunately, that evening, with Gabby next to me, my little brain would not allow me the joy of absorbing most of the first half of it. For a good ten minutes, I found myself focusing on one of the projected clocks on the stage floor, my thoughts, desires, emotions, worries, ticking, clicking, my brain thick with apprehension and joy mixed together.

And here is why. All I fucking wanted to do was hold Gabby’s hand. Idiotic, right? Hold her hand. Ha. Not quite behaving like a thirty-five year old accomplished actor who got a double first at Cambridge and went to RADA and was nominated for a fucking Golden Globe last year. I felt like a child, like a schoolboy. Like a stupid sod, like a too soon to be into it on the first day of knowing the girl, overly romantic, hormonal tit who has seen or acted in one too many costume dramas in his lifetime. 

My brain even conjured up the tragic-comical image of Gabby’s immense beast of a cousin, Johnny, pounding me like a pile driver into the pavement, a fist bashing over and over and over into the top of my head, cartoon-like all because I had the audacity to take Gabby’s hand.

Yeah, like a tit.

But there, in the darkened theatre, with near silence all around, with the excitement of a live story unfolding before us, I wanted, no, craved a connection to her. Maybe that wasn’t so idiotic after all.

While Christopher Boone was trying to interrogate Mrs. Alexander about the unfortunate Wellington’s death, I got my nerve up enough and reached my hand over quickly to take hers. Only instead, I slammed my knuckles hard and angled poorly into the side of her prosthesis. “Ouch! Bloody hell!” I hissed, sotto voce. Damn, that hurt, and I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from making any more noise.

I shook my hand rapidly in my lap, pawing at the sore knuckles with my other hand to soothe the blunt sting, when I felt soft, exploring, tenative fingers on the back of my hand. Gabby’s fingers.

Apparently, she, too, had mentally missed most of the first act; for she, too, was waiting for the right moment, just the right moment — to reach over and take my hand.

Yes, perhaps it wasn’t so idiotic after all.

***

Bluebirds — Tweet Eight  
Twitter all/no replies

Mark Kelly @Markke11y: Spotted @twhiddleston down the pub. Pretty lady on his arm. Lucky man.

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @markke11y. I truly am… a lucky man. Like your band’s song, my friend. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bfx-WVtqx-w

 

Ben had spotted us during the intermission, but, as busy as he was dealing with press and the like, he had no time to talk with us, which was fine. He texted me part way during the second act to meet him down the pub for afters. I showed the text to Gabby, her eyes got wide and she nodded emphatically, yes.

When the show let out there was a small contingent of paps and photogs outside the door, likely trying to catch a glimpse of Ben. As we exited, Gabby and I did stop for some photos, after we heard, and couldn’t ignore, a chorus of “Tom! Tom! Tom, hey, Tom, over here, Tom, look this way, Tom, please Tom” (let me take your picture, Tom, I want to sell it to the Sun and make a quick quid, Tom, let me EAT YOUR SOUL, Tom….) I sighed, and gave it my best. So much for being “Just Tom…” but Gabby took it like a champ, crossing her legs prettily, standing straight, putting her arm behind my back, tilting her head… I repeat, tilting her head… oy vey… and giving the cameras a beaming smile.

I couldn’t have asked her for more.

The photogs shouted at us, asking Gabby’s name, where we met, are we a couple, things like that, but we just kept walking, hand in hand, past the press line, getting lost in the nighttime after theater West End crowd.

And Gabby, bless her, kept smiling.

We arrived at the pub and Ben was waiting for us with a couple of the actors from the show. Gabby held out her hand to Ben and introduced herself. 

“Ben, I’m Gabby, it’s nice… uh… to meet you.”

Ben grinned wickedly, waggled his eyebrows at me, and kissed the back of Gabby’s hand. A short burst of what… jealousy? coursed through me. Worsened only by the conversation that followed.

“Ben Cumberbatch, at your service, my dear,” Ben drolled. 

Gabby blushed. “I… I uh… know.” Holy shit. She was starstruck. Starstruck over Ben Cumberbatch, my contemporary and one of my best mates. Star fucking struck. 

Why couldn’t she have been starstruck with me, my little brain whined. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

“Hold on a mo,” I interjected, turning to Gabby. “I don’t mean to sound like a prat, but why’ve you heard of Ben and not me?”

Ben’s eyes got wide in a “mmm, girl, you’re in trouble now, girl,” type look, and made a clicking noise with his teeth. 

Gabby expelled an irritated breath, punctuated with an “ugh, oh my bloody God, Tom.” I looked at her, expectantly, crossing my arms at my chest. 

“My business partner,” she began, wrapping a hand around the drink the bartender put in front of her, “my partner, Tina, is a huge Sherlockian, Tom. I had no choice after I moved here but to know who Ben is. I mean,” she took a sip, pointed at Ben, and continued, her voice rising in volume and pitch as the pub crowd increased, “nights over at Tina’s house consisted of watching the Reichenbach Fall over and over and over and bloody over again with her trying to figure out how the hell Sherlock fell from that stupid roof without smashing himself to bloody bits, and when the solution finally came out it was all she talked about for weeks and weeks on end, okay!?”

“Okay,” I laughed.

“See, then. I was forced to know who Ben was… absolutely and totally against my will!” She joked, winking at Ben. Ben clutched at his chest and put on a wounded act, laughing through it. “So, am I forgiven?” Gabby gave me a doe-eyed look… a new one… a nice one… and for some strange reason it melted my heart a little. “Am I?”

Ben looked from me to Gabby and back to me, a knowing and sly grin blossoming across his unique, angular, features. I wanted to slap it off for a brief, lunatic instant, but I gave in, smiling myself like a loon, and said, “Of course, forgiven.” I poked Ben in the ribs. “You’ve suffered enough having to watch that drivel.”

“Oi!” Ben ribbed, punching Tom in the shoulder. “Listen, mate. I need to make the rounds, yeah. Laterz?” He bent down to Gabby, and whispered something in her ear. He gave her a peck on the cheek, and then turned to me, winking slyly. 

“Yeah, Ben,” I said, nodding. “Laterz.” Ben disappeared into the growing throng, carrying his Stella Artois up and above his head.

Gabby sat on the bar stool, slightly stunned, as if she were trying to process what Ben had said to her, which, in turn, made me intensely curious, and frankly, a little uneasy.

I walked around and sat on the stool that Ben had been occupying opposite Gabby. I leaned in and asked her, close to her ear, “What the hell did he say to you?”

She ran her finger around the perimeter of her drink glass, sucked briefly on that same finger, looked down at her lap and said, “He said,” she looked up at me, then, “…he said, I’d better not break your heart.”

***

After some time, and a few more drinks, we moved to a newly vacated table. I excused myself from Gabby, and Ben and I went back to order another round of drinks for our growing group —mainly Ben’s friends (some musicians, including a bloke I knew called Mark Kelly). As Ben and I turned, fresh drinks in hand, I saw Gabby speaking with one of our neighbors, Jim Buckley.

Jim Buckley. American arsehole, Harvard prat, and all around never-work-a-day-jack-off of the highest order. There were a very very very few people in this world I despised, and Jimbo Buckley was one of them.

I started striding toward the table, but was pulled back by a gentle pair of hands on my shoulders. Ben. Ben knew Jim as well. Jim was from old American money, and fancied himself a powerful theatre producer. I never worked for him, and swore I never would. His shows were crap. Truly, he knew nothing about theatre and all of his money came from his mommy and daddy back home in Massachusetts, or where the hell ever. All he ever did was write a check, and he thought he was therefore an expert in West End culture. Like I said. Arsehole.

And now that arsehole… that arsehole was drunk and that arsehole was chatting up Gabby. Oh, the unmitigated gall of this guy. I started forward again, hell bent, but Ben held me back again. “Let it play out, mate. I think she knows him.”

I walked closer to the table, at a deceptively leisurely pace. I nodded a curt goodbye to Mark as he was leaving, and situated myself such that I could partially hear what was being said. More importantly, so that I could see Gabby’s face. Gabby did not look pleased, and that made my heart jump just a little bit. 

Of course my little brain, slightly addled by the couple of Jamesons I’d had, wanted to grab him by the stupid looking ponytail, yank his head back, and pummel his hooked nose, damaging that barmy arsed face; but of course, I didn’t. I didn’t have it in me, to attack unprovoked, and absolutely that would not look good on the front page of tomorrow’s Mail. I knew it, and Ben knew it.

“Steady on, Tom,” Ben warned.

Jim turned, and spotted me. Moreover, he likely spotted the proverbial daggers I was hurling at him with my eyes. Couldn’t be helped. Jim grinned, a horrid, evil, alcohol-soaked, wicked grin. He stood and approached me, a hand out for a shake; which I summarily ignored.

“Are you Gabby’s date, Tommy boy?” He asked, his voice dripping with ill-disguised venom. 

I tipped up my chin and nodded. “Yes, in fact I am, Jim.” I smiled. “Why do you ask?”

He walked back over to Gabby, the smarmy git. He touched her shoulder, she recoiled, and he leered at me. “You know we dated, Gabby and I?”

Gabby rolled her eyes and exhaled. “We had one date. One date, Jim, and you were a serious fuckwit. I….”

Jim cut her off, laughing hysterically and with sudden force. “Gimpy, here,” he coughed, laughing harder, “I mean… pardonez moi… Gabby here, was a complete bitch,” He glared at me, pointing drunkenly. “I mean, Tommy… my man. Seriously, Tommy. She wouldn’t put out at all.” He made an overlarge gesture of finality. “Musta been the leg.”

I chanced a glance over at Gabby. Her prior visage of exasperation had morphed into an image of sheer hatred and anger. Her eyes widened, her nose flared, and her mouth was turned down in a moue of distaste. It was a face I would never, ever want to see directed at me. 

Jim staggered over to Gabby again, falling over her, tenting his arms across the arms of her chair. I watched as she shifted slowly backwards, her hands balling into tight fists, and her legs repositioning themselves beneath her.

Jim ran a finger down Gabby’s cheek. “She was soooooo…. OW! Shit! Shit! Oh my god! You bitch!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened, or how it happened, but in an instant, there was a loud thud, and I saw Jim doubled up in severe pain. He was leaning precariously with his head against the table, his arms crossed over his mid-section. He moaned, loudly and pitifully, mournfully. Aha yes. I knew what had happened. My hands and Ben’s hands both flew involuntarily to cover our own reproductive organs.

Yes, Gabby had hauled off and kicked Jim in the goolies. Kicked him in the goolies with her prosthetic leg. That piston of plastic and titanium I told you about? The one driven into gear by Gabby’s extremely strong martial arts trained thigh muscle? Yeah, that. Ouch. 

She leaned over, caught Jim’s eye, and cracked a smile that did not reach her own eyes. When Jim turned to her, shock and horror on his face, she merely said, clutching her chest, mocking, “Oh, dear, my stupid, stupid, gimpy leg. Can’t control it sometimes. You know. It just… does that.” She shrugged, glancing at me, glowing in triumph. She picked up her drink and took a long, leisurely draw of her gin and tonic, batting her eyelashes and pursing her lips with false innocence. 

Which, frankly, was kind of sexy. Wow. I mean, wow. My little brain did a dance of joy. “That’s my girl,” it thought. I felt Ben squeeze my shoulder.

“I figured she’d sort him out. She looks the type. Careful with her, Tom. She’s a spitfire, that one.

Spitfire. Yes, oh yes she was that. And in that instant, I decided that I was extremely lucky to have even the slightest chance with her… to have this spitfire all to myself. The luckiest.

***

Bluebirds — Tweet Nine  
26 May

Tweets all/no replies

3:02 am

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston. Day off one a success. Now what for day two? Only Fate knows for sure, but I have some ideas.

 

As Gabby and I were both pleasantly tipsy (to say the least) by the end of the night, Ben was kind and generous enough to dump us into a taxi out the back of the pub, pre-pay the driver, and send us with a kiss and a handshake (and a promise to arrange a lunch meeting with Gabby’s business partner) on our way back to our building.

Jimbo had long since gone, his driver nearly carrying him out of the pub mere minutes after Gabby’s revenge (I think I may forever call that incident Gabby’s revenge. It has a ring to it, yes?). I was sure we would hear about this later. Jim lived in the building next to ours, and there was absolutely no avoiding the man, especially since he and I ran in some of the same social circles, which was, you know… yeah, wonderful. 

But that didn’t make the evening less sweet. 

The taxi arrived at our building. The driver immediately lit from the driver’s seat, and jogged around to Gabby’s door. He opened the door with a grand gesture, holding out a hand for Gabby to herself alight from the vehicle. 

Damn him for being all gallant and stealing my thunder. 

Gabby wobbled slightly at the kerb, the combination of the alcohol and the foot of her prosthetic leg hitting the cement at a wonky angle. Getting out behind her, I grasped her hips to steady her, and, God help me, she turned and threw her arms around my neck, bowing her head and humming against my chest. 

I guided her up onto the pavement, and made sure she was steady before I thanked and generously tipped the driver. The pleasant fellow, in turn, tipped his flatcap to me and said, “G’night, now, and thank’ye Mr. Hiddleston, sir.” He grinned, knowingly. “Have yourself a good rest of yer evening, then.”

And with that, the black cab chucked into gear and sped away into the night. 

Up the steps, my arm around her shoulders, her arm around my waist, her head resting against my chest… and against my rapidly beating heart. Have you ever been able to feel, I mean actually feel, the muscles of your heart contract and relax away from within your own pleural cavity? I did, that night, in that moment, climbing the steps, and fitting the key in the lock to our shared front door. I did, and I hoped Gabby could hear it, or feel it, too.

We took the few steps to the door of her flat, nearly falling into the small alcove around it. Gabby dug into her bag and fished out her keys. She held them in her hand, but she did not turn to put the key to its intended use. Instead, she raised her chin that few millimetres required to look me in the eye. 

Jesus. Jesus Christ on a stick fried up with pickle and HP Sauce.

Yes, my friends, yes. I had known this woman for just over eighteen hours and already my little brain was screaming, howling, screeching at me, clawing its way up and out, desperate for escape from its confines, and, my friends… here’s what the little bastard wanted.

My little brain, the bloody perv that it is, wanted nothing more than for me to start out by grasping Gabby roughly by the hip and the back of the neck.

It wanted me to tip my head ever so slightly, and press my lips sensuously against hers, my mouth begging, pleading in its movements for entrance to hers. It wanted me to explore her warm, soft tongue with my own, to learn the contours of her, the taste of her….

And in thus doing, the little brain was barking at me, begging me to work her up enough to grant me leave to shove her bodily against the back of her door, relishing in the noise of impact, to grab her leg — either leg — by the back of her knee and hitch it up over my hip, my pelvis pressing and urging against her own. Little brain wanted desperately for me, with my free hand, to seek respite under her dress, to draw my fingers along her thigh, to skim over her hose and her knickers, and go higher, higher, higher, up to caress one deliciously luscious…

Damn and fuck! I shook my head, shuddering. 

Gabby was still looking at me, and from the expression on her face, I’m dead cert her little brain was concocting a plan similar to that of mine. She blinked and gave me a lopsided, half-drunk grin. I leaned down that short distance, closing the gap between my lips and hers.

Shit, no. I can’t do this. 

I pulled back, whimpering at my own fuckassery. But, in spite of the little brain maddening away inside me, in spite of the Jameson running through my veins, in spite of Gabby’s temptingly parted lips just a tick away, I knew one thing —

There was no way in hell I was going to have my first kiss with Gabby either be or become an alcohol-fueled lust fest. 

Gabby opened her eyes and blinked blearily at me. Her mouth pulled down at the corners into an adorable frown. “What? What’s wrong?” 

My mouth went dry, and I ran a hand through my hair. “Um… I… um….”

She pulled back further and studied my face. Her eyes, like mine, were glazed, lacking focus, moving, roving rapidly from eyes to nose to mouth and back again. Yes, she was just as legless as I was. But, in a quick instant, I saw comprehension cross her features. She smiled beatifically up at me and squeezed me affectionately around my middle. Thank God.

She nodded, further showing her understanding. Oh, thank Christ. I shook my head, slowly, sighing with the pain of it. I’d seriously brassed off the little brain and I’m sure, very soon, it was going to make me pay, and pay dearly. “Oh, Christ, Gabby, I do want to kiss you right now,” I said, squeezing tighter.

“But,” she held up her index finger between our faces, tapping at the tip of my nose. My eyes crossed involuntarily, instinctively drawn to her finger. “Yooooouuuuuuu,” she intoned, tapping my nose again, “you, Tom. You don’t want to kiss me when you’re drunk.”

I nodded once. A long, exaggerated, and punctuated nod that made me suddenly dizzy. I braced my hand against the edge of her alcove. “Yes… yes,” I said, going all stupid, “that… is true. That is true. That is… very true. Very true.” I nodded again, closing my eyes.

“Well, then,” she chucked me under the chin. Turning and fitting her key in the lock, she said, “we’ll just have to pick this up where we left… off…,” she turned and ran her finger very licentiously down my cheek, across my neck, and down into the “v” where my shirt lay open. She licked her lips, the wicked wanton woman, “…when we’re… both *hic*… very, very sober.”

She smiled, opened her door, walked inside. She blew me a kiss and gave me a wave, and said, “Thank you for… *hic*… an amazing day, Tom. See you tomorrow.” She closed the door, slowly, peeking around the edge of it until the latch clicked shut.

Tomorrow… I let my entire body fall forward, my head contacting the oak door with a loud and hollow thud. I closed my eyes, slowly turning my head to and fro, back and forth against the wood. I placed a hand against her door, palm flat, and heard Gabby giggling happily to herself from within. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuck me,” I whined, piteously. I pushed myself off the door, up the staircase, and into my own flat. “Fuck me for a prat.”

***

Remember how I said my little brain would take paybacks on me? Yes? Well, it did, the little bastard. Kept me awake. All. Bloody. Fucking. Night. I tossed and turned, not knowing how in the hell I would get out from under the covers at 6 in the morning to go for a run with Gabby. I’d be seriously dragging my arse if I didn’t get some shut eye.

Fuck me for thinking about her, for thinking about those things that the little brain brought into my mind. Fuck me for knowing the woman for less than twenty four freaking hours and wanting her like I’ve wanted no one else in my entire life.

“Damn!” I swore, throwing the duvet off my body and letting it land haphazardly onto the floor. “Damn.”

I got up and out of bed and padded my way into the bath. I took a few paracetamol and a long drink of water to calm my now aching and rather hung over head. I looked at the clock on the wall. Quarter to three. I sighed, resignedly, and walked, heavy-footed, into my study. I fired up the Mac, shot off a few emails (including one to my sister, Emma, who wanted to know who the ‘gorgeous bird’ was, and one from Ben checking in on me, bless ‘im), updated my calendar, and knocked out one rather lame tweet. I looked back over my Twitter feed and realized that I’d been especially verbose that day. Cool, give my fans something to talk about.

Speaking of something to talk about, I clicked over to the Daily Mail and once again looked over the photos of Gabby and myself from that morning. Jesus, that felt like a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes ago. It was utterly difficult to fathom that I could learn so much about another person, that person could learn so much about me, and I could grow to feel so much bloody affection for that person - and have that affection returned - in the span of less than a day. Difficult, but not impossible.

I was, I think, beginning to become one of those sad sack believers in love at first sight; because maybe, just maybe, this was what it meant.

I scrolled through the articles and saw that the Mail had added some photos of Gabby and myself from the theatre last night. Bloody hell, they work quickly. Anyway, the photos were… stunning. Gabby looked like a starlet on my arm. Beautiful in her way, confident, happy, and ready to take on the world. The Mail had, finally, identified her by name and mentioned briefly that she was a “London-based fire investigator.” 

But see, I knew she was so much more.

I decided that a nice soothing chamomile cuppa would be just the thing to help me get to sleep. I walked into the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood and tile, when I heard a knock on my door and a tenative, “Tom? Tom are you up?”

Since our building was secure, and only one other person lived here, I knew it was Gabby. “I’m up.” I responded, through the door. “Give me a mo,” I called out. 

What was I waiting for? Well, since I was walking round my flat completely starkers I needed to get some clothes on before I let her in, of course.

I threw on a pair of long running shorts and a Cambridge t-shirt. I walked up to the door. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I shuddered at the state of my bed-head, and combed my fingers quickly through the unruly mass. “Fuck it,” I said, and opened the door. “Hi,” I smiled.

Gabby stood there, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with perhaps the most adorable smile I’d ever seen on a woman in my life. She licked her lips and bit the bottom one. She grasped nervously over and over at the edge of her blanket. “I, um… heard you clomping around up here, and I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come up and, I dunno, keep you company, maybe?” She shrugged, the entire blanket moving up and down. She continued, “Sleepless sympathizing with the sleepless and all that.” Her fingers twiddled with the blanket edge for one more beat, and then, looking up at me with big, child like eyes, she asked, “Well, Tom, are you sober yet?”

If I hadn’t been sober before, I was at that… very… moment.

***


	4. Tweets Ten through Thirteen

Bluebirds - Tweet Ten

A/N a little less humour and a little more angst in this one, but it’s necessary for Tom and Gabby to move forward. xx

Tweets all/no replies

LuckyLowkeyLoki @LLLoki: OMGODS! did I see a piccy of @twhiddleston w/a girlfriend? Gods I hope not b/c jasfsdkjf! #NOOOO!

Hiddlestoned LawProf @hiddleslaw101: @LLLoki. You tagged his twitter. He’ll see what you said. Who cares if he has a gf? It’s his bidnezz, babe. #happyforhim

LuckyLowkeyLoki @LLLoki: @hiddleslaw101 @twhiddleston SHUT UP! Don’t care don’t care dont care.I can’t look. I can’t. #unfair #sad

Hiddlestoned LawProf @hiddleslaw101: @LLLoki. You did it again. How old are you? 16? Fat chance. Give it up and let @twhiddleston live his life. #growup

 

I stood there, staring like an idiot at her for what must have felt like an eternity. I think if someone else were to have seen me in that very moment, they’d have thought I’d gone bonkers or lost the plot. 

It’s not like she was standing there in a negligee’ or standing in some sort of suggestive position, or even standing there completely starkers (which, you know, would have been just fine in my book); but she was simply standing there, in my doorway, at three in the morning, in a pair of trainers and pyjamas and a soft blanket around her shoulders and I was all discombobulated. 

Little brain strikes again. On top of a sort of hung over, very tired big brain. 

Gabby smirked at me, raising her right eyebrow and god help me, tilting her head ever so slightly. “You okay, Tom?” She grinned. I nodded, shutting my gaping mouth with a click of my teeth, and nodded again. “Can I…” she pointed, “can I come in?”

I blinked, shaking my head slightly. Recomposed, I grinned broadly at her, “Yes, of course,” and gestured her into my flat. “You couldn’t sleep either, huh?” I ushered her toward my sofa. I moved some cushions aside and let her sit down. “I was, um… just about to make some tea,” I asked, clapping and rubbing my hands together, ”want some?”

She responded affirmatively, and as the things went, I nearly sprinted into the kitchen, made the tea, and spit spot was back in the reception room, placing the tray of tea things on the antique chest in front of us. And since, my friends, you’re probably not very interested in the thought of Gabby and I sitting around companionably drinking tea, let me just say that we did and have it be that.

We drank our tea until Gabby turned to me, a quite serious and perhaps, sorrowful expression on her face. “I need to ask you something, Tom. I know it’s late, and we’re tired, but it’s better to get it done with… because its kind of important.”

I shook my head and shrugged, “Fire away.”

She placed her cup on the tray and turned back to face me, her fingers twiddling in her lap, fussing with the drawstring of her University of Illinois pyjama pants. “I hate to be an… because it’s so soon and… I don’t know, but I have to ask, are you… I mean, are we…,” she sighed and rolled her eyes. “I mean, is this….?” She pointed her finger back and forth between me and herself. 

I reached out quickly and grasped her finger, mid swing. I pulled her hand into my lap and curled my fingers around hers. “I’d like it to be, or at least I’d like to try.”

She smiled, winsomely, and peered up at me through her eyelashes. “Me, too,” she affirmed. “But, I need to know something first, and it’s a little bit of an emotional bug-a-bear, but it’s important Won’t be easy, okay.” There was the twiddle with the drawstring again.

Bewildered, confused… concerned…yet emboldened, I reached up and ran my fingers over her jawline, tilting her head up. She closed her eyes briefly, smiled, and tilted into my touch. “Like I said, Gabby, fire away.”

She nodded and took a very deep breath. “I’ve dated,” she shrugged, “a little bit here and there since my um… accident… twice, actually, and each time it’s not gone well.”

Concerned is bloody right. Where the hell was this going? I wondered, but I respectfully said nothing. I squeezed her hand, encouraging her.

Another deep breath. “Each time, the blokes I’ve dated have learned… things… about me, about my injuries, about the state of my… body… and immediately either took horrid, depressive pity upon me, or insulted me beyond my tolerance, or have rejected me outright, and I do not want any of that again, I will not go through it again, and will not allow that to happen again.” The words tumbled out of her mouth pell-mell and it took me a few beats to completely fathom what she was saying. 

I squinted at her. “But you know, I don’t give a fig about your leg….” 

She smiled and nodded. “It’s not my leg, Tom.” I just blinked, uncomprehending, but she continued. “It was an explosion, remember? I know you read the articles.”

“Yes,” I replied, trying desperately to keep my voice and my mind steady. 

“I’ve scars,” she said, her voice a near whisper. “My own stupidity, really, taking my turnout coat off, but they’re there, and I don’t want you to be… disgusted by….”

Jesus, who did she think I was? Or worse, what? 

I squeezed her arm, tight. “Stop right there, Gabby.” 

“But I…maybe I should just….” She tried pulling away, she tried getting up off the sofa, but I pulled back, holding firm. She flopped back down on the sofa, her arm flapping resignedly, and looked up at me. Bloody hell but there were angry tears welling in the corners of her eyes. 

Both big brain and little brain wondered: a) why she was so angry, b) what and where were these scars, c) how bad could they possibly be, and moreover, d) who the hell had the audacity to make Gabby cry. 

How dare he. Whoever it was, how fucking dare he.

“Jim…, ” she began. Well, that answered my question right there.

Gabby said, “I told him about my back, about the explosion, and the scars, and he went off and told me that if we were ever to go to bed together that we’d just have to fuck with me wearing a t-shirt.” Prick, I thought, but Gabby continued. “Or, he said, he’d just not fuck me from behind, so he wouldn’t have to look at them.” Gabby frowned, distaste mixed with sorrow was painted broad-brush over her features.

Arsehole! With those words, a hot, burning anger welled up deep inside of me. Little brain was furious. Little brain wanted to hunt down Jim Buckley and dunk his smarmy face into a vat of hot, painful, boiling tar and then tear open a feather pillow and shake it out above his knobby head. I inhaled sharply, through my nose, trying desperately to get little brain to shut up. “Let me see,” I said, firmly. “I want to see.”

Her eyes widened and she stared, incredulous. “You….” she started, and a tear fell from her right eye. It killed me inside to see that. 

“I want to see,” I repeated, and then added, “Please Gabby, I want to know. I promise. I absolutely promise I won’t be disgusted.” She blinked rapidly, obviously still unsure. 

I grasped up both of her hands into mine and squeezed. “Gabby, I swear. It’s you. Any scars you may have, they’re you, and if you think — if you think for the slightest moment that I’d reject you because of that, well, then, you’re out of your mind. But,” I said, slower, ”if you think it would help, if you need to, if you need to know how I will react, before we go any further with… this…” I mimicked her pointing back and forth between the two of us, “if you need to know what I will think of you, which I assure you will not change, then, yes. Yes, you should show me.”

Gabby nodded, slowly. She rose from the couch, turned her back to me, and sat down again. 

I’ve no idea why but I started shaking, my breath hitched in my chest, and butterflies danced in my gullet. I think, I think it was because of this: I hated the idea of Gabby ever having been in that much pain. I hated the thought that she lived through such hell, and it was bad enough losing her leg, but this, too? 

Gabby looked over her shoulder at me and bit her bottom lip as if to say, “ready?” I nodded and smiled at her, trying to reassure. She lifted her blue and orange t-shirt, and what I saw took my breath away.

Jesus Christ. 

There were two uneven swatches of scarred skin, one on either side of her spinal column. They were identical in shape, but not in form. They both started with an apex just at her scapula, arching down and widening out until they stopped abruptly in a line just above where her fire protective trousers would have been. The skin was, for a lack of a better word, chaos. There was no rhyme or reason to it. It swirled in reddened patterns in some places, paled in others, and looked as if it had been purposefully cut into check patterns in yet others. 

It looked as if someone had blown a blast of hot air up her back from below; which, for all practicalities, was what likely happened with the shockwave.

Tears formed in my own eyes and I fought against them, desperately, thanking God that Gabby’s back was turned to me, that she couldn’t see. She spoke, muffled slightly, her head bowed against her bent right knee. “I took my turnout coat off,” she said, slowly. “I was told the fire was out. Search and rescue, and we, me, Jackson, Fernandez, Kingsley, we were told that the fire was out. I was stupid, brash. We all were. I went in there, no gear, coat open, and there was a child, in a closet.” 

I just sat there, listening. I could hear the heaviness of her voice, and the small sniffles. ”It’s okay, Gabby,” I said, “you don’t have to….”

But she continued. “She and her brother, I think. I never found out, but I picked them both up. The girl, she had burns on her arms, so I put them both down. She needed to be covered, needed to be wrapped up she was shvering so much. I took off my turnout coat, and wrapped the girl in it. Took them both outside and gave the kids, handed them over to the paramedics. I never got my coat back.” She sniffed. “Chief yelled at me to put my bloody stupid coat on but I went back in, and then…, then I don’t remember anything after that.”

I blinked, comprehension washing over me. “Gabby. You… you saved those kids.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I did or not, Tom. I don’t know if the girl lived, or if the boy was even alive when I took him out. I just don’t know.”

We were both quiet for a long, long time. She kept her back to me, her head bowed. A tear fell down my nose and I wiped it away with the heel of my hand. I reached out the same hand toward Gabby, shaking. I grasped her upper arm. “Gabby?” She tensed. I let go, and my hand, seemingly on its own, hovered over the scar on the left side of her body. “Would it hurt if I… touched you?”

She sobbed, once, a loud, heartwrenching sob that tore through me. “Gabby,” I said, my hand still hovering, “what is it?”

“No one,” she sniffed, “no one, except doctors and nurses and physios have touched me back there, since it happened. No one has wanted to, no one has asked to. Ever.”

“So,” I set my hand, ever so gingerly, upon her shoulder, just above. “May I? Please?”

Her head bobbed up and down, nodding in silent assent. 

I reached out, my fingers wiggling slightly, and skimmed them, downward, over the scar tissue. Gabby drew a sharp breath and arched her back, not pulling away from my touch, but pushing into it. Good. I wasn’t causing her pain. The flesh was warm, textured, paper-thin and feather light. Her skin was soft, yet not soft. I felt each ridge, each bump, each undulation under my fingers. She arched again, hissing, sighing. ”Are you okay?” I asked, and allowed myself to lay my entire hand flat against her back.

She turned and looked at me over her shoulder. Her face was a mess of tears and nose wet, but she smiled, delight mixed with sorrow mixed with relief, I think. She reached back, grasped my other hand and pulled, upwards and forwards, asking me without words to place my other hand upon her back, which I did. 

But I thought — she needed more than a mere touch. Inspired, I leaned forward, arching myself over her back, hands on either side of her body. I gently, ever so gently, laid a brief kiss at the apex of each scar. She drew in a sharp breath again, and I heard her sob, once, twice, and then a rather strange thought popped into my mind.

“Angel’s wings.” I whispered, pulling back, lifting my hands to her back once again. Angel’s wings… I had no idea where the hell that came from, but there it was. I said it. 

“What?” Gabby said, craning her neck to look at me.

I licked my lips, nervous, and pulled my hands away. She pulled her shirt down and turned the rest of the way around to face me. ”Um… I…, ” I stammered, “I think, I just said, angel’s wings.” She tilted her head, fresh tears forming in the canthi of her eyes. ”Your scars,” I whispered, my head bowed, pulling at the hem of my t-shirt, “they look like angel’s wings,” my voice got quieter, but I couldn’t control the words tumbling from my mouth. Arsehole little brain. “You were, I think… an angel to save those kids.” 

Fuck, but that sounded daft. Angel’s wings, ha! Jesus, Tom, how fucking stupid could you be? And idiotic. And stupid. But I’d said it. Damn me for a fool.

Gabby sat there, silent, staring at me, gobsmacked, utterly gobsmacked. I thought I’d blown it. Tears rolled down her face, now unchecked. Yes, I thought I’d screwed the pooch royally until… until I saw her face change. She’d somehow pushed a sweet, sweet, smile through her chin’s uncontrolled wobbling, and sniffed. 

Well, maybe not so stupid after all.

She reached up a hand, cupping my face. Her fingers moved further back, lacing this way and that through my tangled hair, her nails skimming gently against my scalp. With her other hand, Gabby grasped the back of my neck, and both hands pulled me across the chasm between our folded legs. She met me half way.

I closed my eyes, relaxed my lips, and tasted salt tears and relief and joy and cherry lip balm. It was delicious. We both pushed ourselves forward, the leather of the sofa creaking as we closed in the gap between our bodies. Our kiss deepened, the pace sped up. She sobbed, once, against my mouth, through the kiss, and I curled my arms around her, holding her tighter, pulling her chest against mine. I allowed my hands to move, up and down, along the broken flesh of her back, through the fabric, and she moaned with it. She moaned, and I wanted to hear that moan over and over and over again, in a million different ways. 

Her arms went around my neck and her fingers dug into the fabric of my t-shirt collar. She grasped on, holding to me for dear life. I pulled away, briefly, and looked down at her. I wiped away this tear and that, and dried her face with the corner of my shirt. “It’s okay, Gabby,” I said. “It’s okay.”

She leaned into me again, brushing her lips against mine, whispering, “Thank you, Tom,” before she tipped up her chin and moved against me again, her lips gaining purchase upon mine, her tongue licking at my lower lip, giving an unspoken password, seeking entrance, which I absolutely, thankfully, and gladly gave. Her kiss, her mouth, her tongue, they were soft, resplendent, new, unpracticed, and everything about this was absolutely genuinely passionate and wonderful. I wanted more. 

I wanted her.

And I think for now, little brain was happy with me again.

***

We, quite reluctantly, broke the kiss, both of us feeling light headed and a bit spinny and incredibly spent. I tried, but I could not stifle an immense yawn, and it roared out of me, forcing every muscle of my body, including my lungs and my mouth, to stretch and settle again.

Gabby caught the yawning bug, stretching langurously. When she finished, she beamed at me, laughing. “You tired?” 

“Knackered, absolutely knackered,” I replied.

Gabby leaned over and kissed me tenderly on the cheek. She stood up, adjusted her prosthetic a little, and straightened her pyjamas, shaking her knees to let the folds out. ”I should go,” she observed, and started to turn toward the entryway. 

Little brain screamed NOOOOOOOOO! MakeherstaymakeherstayIwanthertostay! Make. Her. Stay!

Gabby bent over and reached for her trainers. ”Should we make our run later in the…what?”

Make. Her. Stay!

I reached up and grasped her arm, stopping her. “Stay,” I said, quickly. “Please, will you stay?” Gabby shot me a questioning look. I shook my head, “No, I’m afraid I’m far too gone for any of that tonight, and I’d be no good at all; but, would you,” I patted her spot on the sofa, “just… please stay here with me for a while?” 

Gabby smiled, dropped her shoes, and reclaimed her spot on the sofa. “What if I fall asleep?” She relaxed and let her body fall toward mine, snuggling her head against my chest and lazily draping her arm over my body. She curled her right leg up against my left, and let her other leg dangle off the edge. 

I sighed, quite content. “Then, you fall asleep.” I looked down at her prosthetic leg, and pointed with my eyes and a nod toward it. “Do you need to take that off?”

She beamed up at me, mischief in her eyes. “Getting a little fresh now, aren’t we? Take it off, he says, and here we’d just kissed. Pushy.” 

Sassy thing. I laughed and poked her in the side, playful. 

She pushed off of me and poked me back. She hitched up her pyjamas and started working on her leg. “Yeah, I’d better take it off,” she said. She pushed a button and the metal and plastic appartus came loose from its moorings. She rolled a silicone stocking off of her stump, rubbed at the skin a little, pushed her pyjama leg back down and sighed happily. “Much better.”

“Come here.” I said, patting my chest. “I want to hold you.”

She obeyed, snuggling in once again, warm and content against me. In no less than five minutes, Gabby was asleep, smiling, limp and snoring in my arms. I’m sure I went off to nod within five minutes thereafter, smiling, limp and snoring in hers.

Happy now, little brain?

***

Bluebirds - Tweet Eleven  
Tweets all/no replies

Luke Windsor @lukejwindsor: On hols. Bar telly shows a @twhiddleston film Fri. and an @EmWatson one Sat. Mobile rings. Can’t escape. #workfollowsme #thatsok

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Enjoy, my good friend. All’s well, now. See you when you return. #tanned #relaxed

 

 

“Tmmmmmm, Tmmm rrrr uu waaake?” My subconscious brain registered some voice, some words, a soft female voice… something about my name and waking up, but I didn’t quite hear it in my sleepy, dream-addled state.

Then there was a vibration against my chest, and a weight undulated in my lap. I took a deep inhale through my nose, and worked my mouth open and shut, smacking and pursing my lips as my body carried my mind to wakefulness.

The weight stirred slightly, then stiffened against my chest. “Tom,” it said, “Tom?”

I opened my eyes and looked down - I’d somehow slept in a sitting position — to see Gabby turned on her side, head and shoulder in my lap, facing away from me. She spoke again, “Tom, do you consider yourself a breast man?”

I blinked and wiped my eyes, pinching at the bridge of my nose with my right hand and then rubbing the back of the same hand against my left eye. I blinked some more and looked down at Gabby. “Dunno. I suppose I am,” I said, drowsily, and yawned. “why?”

“Well,” she replied, a giggle in her voice, “your subconscious sure seems to think you are.” She pressed her hand against my left one… which, itself was pressed to and my fingers wrapped around her…

“Oh, Shit!” I exclaimed, splaying my hand and pulling it away from her breast as if burnt. Fucking, perverted little brain…. I wiggled my hand out from beneath her shirt and shook it. “Oh, dear. Jesus, Gabby, I’m so, so, so, sorry!” I covered my gaping mouth with the same hand, mortified. I’m sure I blushed. “So incredibly sorry.” I moved, stiffening slightly beneath Gabby, pushing and straightening up against the sofa cushions.

“No worries, Tom, really.” Gabby sat up, wiping sleep sand from her own eyes. She stretched luxuriously and lay back down upon my lap, face up, her head and shoulders across my thighs. “It was… kind of nice.” She smiled innocently up at me, grasped my hand… and God damn her, she placed that hand right back over her breast, over the fabric of her t-shirt, pushing my fingers into a squeeze.

“Cheeky thing.” I stroked her tangled hair with my other hand, trying desperately to keep myself from sensually kneading the tempting mound of flesh beneath my fingers. Jesus Christ, but her breast was luscious, so instead, I bent to her and pushed my lips to hers. 

She hummed against my mouth, reached her arm up and curled her hand around the back of my head. She pulled me down, and tilted her chin up, deepening the kiss. I turned slightly, switching positions, and lifted her, cradling the back of her head. My fingers moved of their own volition, creeping back beneath her shirt, the digits ghosting over her skin, re-exploring what I’d apparently already sought out in my sleep. 

My fingertips made contact with the underside of her bosom. She moaned and her tongue skittered over my upper teeth…

… when my mobile rang. Damn. Fuck. Stupid mobile and that stupid bell tower ringtone that I knew could have only been one person; and I had to answer it or he would keep calling and calling and would keep calling until I picked up and damn it all to hell.

So, I let it ring. And it stopped. And five seconds later, the iPhone carillon played out again. I frowned against Gabby’s lips and sighed into her mouth. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Do you um,” she sat up beside me, straightened her shirt, and turned to face me, “do you need to get that? Sounds rather insistent.”

I rolled my eyes and let the weight of my head fall backwards. I miscalculated the distance and my head hit the wall with a sickening thud. “Ouch, fuck!” 

I rubbed the back of my head, bent over forward, and squished my eyes shut. I heard a muffled giggle, turned and glared at Gabby who was desperately trying to stifle an explosion of laughter. “Your mobile… it…,” more laughter, “it stopped at least.”

But no, it didn’t. The bells chimed yet again. 

I groaned, sat up and reached for the mobile. “Crap.” I took a breath, composed myself, and slid the “slide to answer” bar across the bottom of Luke Windsor’s smirking face on my iPhone screen. “Hello, Luke. Aren’t you supposed to be on holiday?”

“Supposed to be is the operative phrase, Tom,” he said. Crap. Here it comes, I thought.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, trying to keep the smile in my voice. “Not enough Tanqueray stocked in the bar, mate?”

“Ha, ha, very funny, Hiddleston.” Luke was obviously not amused. “No, I’ve been on my God damn mobile all night… you know it’s one a.m. here, right? Well, it is, and I’ve been fielding fucking calls since five!” His voice rose an octave and about ten decibels. 

“What happened to leaving the mobile at home?” I stood up and stretched, scratching at my stomach.

“Not an option,” Luke replied, curtly. “Someone has to prevent the shit storm.”

“Shit storm? About what?” I turned to Gabby, who was staring at me, intently. I mouthed, “publicist,” to her, rolled my eyes, and turned my finger in a circle around my ear, signifying, “Luke’s gone ‘round the twist.”

“About you, arsehole. You and that woman you’ve been spotted with.” 

“That woman,” I replied, calmly, hand on my hip, “happens to be sitting right here with me, and her name is not ‘that woman,’ it’s Gabrielle.”

Luke sighed audibly. “Gabrielle, fine. Fine, but I’ve been fielding calls for hours, and I’m not happy about it. I’m on holiday for fuck’s sake.”

“Not on holiday by mistake?” I joked in a silly voice.

“No Withnail puns allowed, Hiddleston, not in the state I’m in.” Jesus, this was some serious shiznit. Withnail & I was his favorite film. If my impression of Richard E. Grant’s Withnail couldn’t make him laugh, nothing could.

I shook my head, running a hand through my hair. “I’m listening, Luke. What kind of calls? What’s the problem?”

Another sigh. “You were in the Daily fucking Mail, Tom. You haven’t been in the Daily Mail for the entire six years I’ve worked with you more than once, and that’s because we allowed them interview you.”

“And the problem is….?”

“You — in a crap media outlet — without my foreknowledge. That’s the problem. We’ve been so careful, Tom!” 

“No,” I replied, poking a finger at the air. “You… have been overly cautious. Em’s been in the Mail while she was at Uni in the states — a dozen times, with this bloke and that bloke and this party and that party! Jesus, Luke! Aaron’s been in the Mail fuck all times for a hell of a lot worse than walking or going to the theatre with a girl! So, what’s the problem?” 

I crossed to the window and yanked the curtains open. Gray light filled the room. It was raining cats and dogs outside, just like it was raining bullshit in here.

“The problem, Tom, is that this woman…” I may have growled at him a little bit, I’m not certain, but Luke continued, “I mean, Gabrielle… she hasn’t been vetted! I know nothing about her, I don’t know who she is…”

I crossed my arms. “Vetted,” I replied, slowly, calmly… dangerously. “Vetted? Who am I, a fucking MP? The Prince of fucking Wales that I have to have my friends… what? Vetted, you said? Before I have the audacity and gall to dare leave my flat and be seen with them?” I was quite close to losing my temper, and little brain was absolutely seething. “What am I, a trained monkey?” 

“But Tom…”

“Luke, she’s my neighbor, and my friend,” I interrupted, glancing at Gabby for confirmation. She nodded, looking worried. I sat beside her on the sofa, and grasped her hand.

Luke continued, “I don’t know what she does….”

“She’s a fire investigator, and a damn good one.” I interrupted again, squeezing Gabby’s hand.

“I don’t know where she’s from…”

“North London by way of the Midwest of America, by way of Chicago by way of bloody fucking Chelsea, Luke! What else do you need to know?” I stood up again, crossing to the dining room. I leaned heavily on the large, oak slab table. 

“Have you slept with her?”

I blinked, stunned. The bastard. So, fine. He wanted to play that way, so I’d play. ”Yes, Luke. Yes, I have ‘slept’ with her.”

“Shit, Tom! What the fuck is wrong with you! If this gets…,” Luke yelled.

“Slept, Luke. Slept, as in slept, as in sleeping, as in fell asleep on the sofa, as in clothing on and intact, you sodding little pervert.”

“You mean, you haven’t…,” he stuttered.

“No, you fool! Of course not, what kind of prick do you think I am? You know I’d never do something like that!”

An audible sigh. “No, you wouldn’t. Sorry, mate.” Pause. “But I still know nothing about….”

“What else do you need to know, man?” I interrupted. “I’ve only known her for one day — one single day, and what, you tell me that the press has already gone ape shit?”

“Well, not yet, not so much ape shit like Lindsay Lohan ape shit, but if the press does go ape shit, it’s going to be your fault….”

“Why?” I blurted. “Why? Why is it my fault? There’s been no PDA! Have I been caught drink driving? Did I get caught picking up a hooker? Did I assault anyone? Get in a fight? Steal anything? Get caught with cocaine on my nose? No, I did not.” The words tumbled out, rapid fire, my tone and volume increasing exponentially. “Did I, Luke… did I do a Britney Spears and shave my bloody head? No. Did I pick up some bird in some dive bar like Aaron does on a weekly fucking basis and take her home for a bit of a poke and tickle and then send her home carrying her shoes and doing the walk of shame in the morning? No. I. Did. Not. I did none of the above, Luke, and you know I never would, so there is absolutely no reason for you to think that the press is going to go bonkers over me. None.”

There was silence on the line for a beat, and then Luke said, “Are you quite finished, Tom?”

I blinked and exhaled forcefully through my nose. I glanced at Gabby again — she was staring at me, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Yes, yes I suppose I am, I’m finished.”

“Calm now?”

I looked up at Gabby and nodded. She returned the nod, but concern was still etched on her features. ”Yes, Luke. Calm now. I’m awfully sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, man. Just listen to me for a mo, okay?”

“Yeah.” I pulled out a dining chair and plopped into it, head in hand, elbow on table.

“Let me talk?”

“Yeah. Talk.”

“Is she still there?” He asked, referring to Gabby.

“Yes.”

“Then answer carefully,” Luke instructed. “First let me say that Gabby looks beautiful, Tom. The comments on the Mail website have been nothing but positive, okay? She’s gorgeous, and from what I’ve seen on Google of her, she’s pretty amazing, and rather heroic.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“She may be good for you, just what you need, a boost, you know?”

“I really, really hate to think of it that way. I can’t think like you do, Luke, but maybe.”

“But, Tom, here’s the aggro, okay? She’s a complete stranger. She’s not Sian, who you’ve known since RADA, and she’s not an actress with a publicist I can ring and get everything I need to know at a tick. All I am asking of you is that you let me do a background….”

I groaned, scratching vigorously at my head. ”Jesus, Luke, is that really necessary?”

“You may not think so, and you may just be daft enough to not realize the extent and value of your notoriety, but yes. It is necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because. You don’t know her.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” I replied.

“After twenty four hours, you know her.” Luke said, incredulous.

“Yes.”

Silence, again. “It’s already done. I’m already on it, Tom. I’ll find nothing, I’m certain, but I’ve already called J&K Agents and they’re working it.”

I sighed, “Fine. Do what you want, Luke. You always do.”

“Another thing,” Luke continued. “I know I can’t stop you going out and about with her….”

“No,” I interrupted, “you can’t.”

“I know I can’t. All I ask is that until you and Gabby decide if and to what extent you’re going to or not going to have a relationship, please keep the displays of affection indoors.”

“I am nothing, Luke, but a perfect gentleman, you know that.”

“I do,” he replied, “but I just do not want speculation to run rampant, I don’t want to have to issue constant press notices. For now, if anyone else in the press asks me I will tell them you two are good friends, and try to keep it looking that way for now. That will stand until you tell me otherwise, and if you do, it had better be like, wedding bells serious.” Luke paused. “I really wish you would have called me before going to the theatre last night.”

“Why?” I asked. “I just wanted to take Gabby out for a proper date, a nice, proper, romantic, normal….”

“See, that’s the problem, Tom. It’s not normal. Your life, it’s not normal.”

“But I….”

“Tom, you can’t expect to live the life of the average Jack while at the same time getting MTV Movie Award nods, BAFTAs and Golden Globe nominations! You are a celebrity, like it or not, and nothing about your life is ever going to be normal. Ever.”

Wow. Well, so much for ‘Just Tom.’ Fuck.

“I can’t not live my life, Luke.”

“You can do whatever you want, Tom, within reason. But you are in a position that you have to do it with a level of care if you value your career and value your sanity. In your position, and you may not want to believe this, but they are both very fragile things.”

I stood up, gave Gabby the ’just a minute’ signal with my index finger, and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. ”I don’t intend to give her up, Luke.”

“Hopefully, mate, you won’t have to.” He paused, sighing. “Listen, lots of people in your position date and marry non-celebrities. Look at Natalie Portman and her husband.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “they’re amazing together.”

“Right, and I know her pub is very, and I mean very protective of the both of them. So, all I am saying, Tom….”

“Yeah?” I leaned my bum against the vanity, crossing my legs beneath me.

“Let me do my bloody job, mate. Let me protect you, and if you want me to, protect Gabby.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“But I can’t do it without your cooperation. I can’t. I need you to work with me here.”

“I will. We will. I’ll talk with Gabby about it. Hopefully this doesn’t fuck things up.”

“Speaking of that,” Luke added, “There’s one more thing.”

“What?” I replied, pressing fingertips to my forehead.

“I’m concerned for Gabby’s welfare. I don’t want, and I’m sure you don’t want her exposed to the same type of abuse Sian had to endure.” I nodded, recalling the horrors one of my best female friends endured at the hands of some people who called themselves my ‘fans’. “I’m already seeing some wonky traffic on Twitter, and I don’t want Gabby caught up in it.”

“What can we do about that?” I opened the door to the loo, and exited. Gabby had put her leg back on and was sitting at my dining table, padding her fingers against the screen of her mobile. I winked at her as I passed, gave her an ‘ok’ signal with my fingers, and she smiled and winked back at me. She gave me the thumbs up, a questioning look on her face, and I nodded, returning the gesture.

Luke answered me. “I’ll send Jack over this afternoon, say, at about two GMT?”

“The IT guy? What’s he going to do?”

“Shore up Gabby’s Twitter account, get her personal phone and address unlisted, and whatever else is necessary to protect her.” Luke paused, “If that’s what you want.”

“Let me talk with her first,” I responded. “Send Jack over anyway, please. I need some help with WhoSay.”

“Got it.” Another pause. “And I’ll… um… let you know on the background check.”

“I still don’t understand why….”

“Two words,” Luke said, “Michael Binghamton.”

Inhale. Exhale. Shit. “Fine,” I replied. “Fine. Let me know, please.”

“Will do.”

“And Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” I said, and then added, “Listen. I want you, my good fellow, after you ring off with me… to,” I put on the Richard E. Grant voice again, “sit down…to enjoy… your holiday.”

I could hear the smile on the other end of the line. I took a deep, indicative breath, Luke got the signal, and we both yelled in unison, laughing like loons: “Throw yourself into the road, darling! You haven’t got a chance!”

And we rang off. 

And my little brain kicked in and suddenly felt like shite.

Now, my friends, I lay odds that you’re wondering who the hell Michael Binghamton was and why he played any part whatsoever in Luke’s psyche over my budding relationship with Gabby. 

Lemme ‘splain it to yer. 

Michael Ian Binghamton was, and is an actor, about my age, Oxford educated, RADA trained, like me. Far better looking than I am. Large, fanatic, loyal fan base. Out of the blue, he started dating this unreal, gorgeous bird, who, of course, no one knew anything about. They dated for a good six months before Michael’s publicist got suspicious. He dug a bit, hired a PI who tailed her for a while, got in with the London Police for their facial recognition database, and pulled a background check on her. 

What did he find out? She didn’t exist. Not as Michael knew her. 

She was not who she said she was. She was not a modeling agent. She was not a former model. She was not even British — American. From New Jersey for Christ’s sake. Who was she? 

She was a journalist, a fucking journalist, trying desperately to get the story of a lifetime — trying every day with whining and arguments and physical blows to coax Michael into violence back against her, trying to get him to lash out at her, taunting him, fighting with him, searching for him to give her that beautiful holy grail of relationship stories— that oh, so photographable black eye or bruise to the cheek — all so she could do a write up about it. And make some quid off it.

Michael was seriously heartbroken. I know. I know he was because he sat in this very flat, with me, on my sofa, crying his eyes out into glasses of my expensive Napa Valley wine, and cups of coffee and green tea.

Thank God for that publicist, because now, Michael is one of the most sought-after actors in Hollywood. His career could have been seriously shattered, his life irrepairibly ruined. But it wasn’t. Instead? The journo was fired, and Michael sued her in the American courts and won - won big - against both her and her publisher.

So, yes. Michael Binghamton. Michael fucking Binghamton and his asinine situation was going through my mind as I sat on the couch, head bent, scratching vigorously at my hair. I groaned. I glanced over at Gabby. She smiled at me, worried. “You okay?”

Inhale. Exhale. “Yeah, I’m okay, just annoyed with my publicist. Just thinking. Give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”

Shit. What if Luke’s fears were right? What if Gabby was…? I looked over at her again, with her tapping away on her mobile. She mumbled to herself now and again as I watched her, mouthing words that looked like “arson,” and “fuck,” and something that looked like “vector analysis is all wrong.” Working on Sunday. But what was she working on? Was she… was she….”

No, you arse. That was impossible. Absoutely impossible. Stupid, stupid Tom. Stupid tom, you are, for even thinking of it. 

Unless… Fuck! 

Little brain and it’s paranoia. Idiotic little brain. Hateful little brain.

Thanks, Luke. Thanks a fucking lot.

I really didn’t know her. Did I? 

The rain battered against the bay window. Lightining cracked. Thunder boomed. Storm raged outside. Storm brewed in my mind.

She stood up and crossed to me, sitting down on the antique chest, her legs demurely situated between my splayed wide ones. She placed her phone down beside her hip and took my hands, both of them, in her own.

“Talk to me, Tom. Please.”

***

Bluebirds — Tweet Twelve  
Tweets all/no replies

26 May

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Song of the day: ”Creep” by Radiohead. Some days it’s just fitting.

 

I squeezed both of Gabby’s hands in my own shaking ones, causing her to look up, startled, into my eyes. 

“Tom,” she tilted her head - Jesus help me she did it again, and I wanted to kiss her so badly right then and there — “Talk to me,” she said, “what’s wrong? What did he say to you?”

I took a long, bracing breath. “My publicist, Luke?” She nodded, understanding, “He has… concerns.”

Head tilt again. “About… me?” She furrowed her brow. “What… what kind of concerns?”

“About your safety.” Bloody liar. “And about… mine. You see, he’s worried, and I’m worried, frankly, that you’re not who you say you are.”

“What?” She stood, suddenly, jerking her hands out of mine. “What the fuck, Tom? What does he think I’ll do, axe murder you in your sleep?”

“No, Gabby, I… I… I… please, Gabby!” I stuttered, tears prickling hatefully behind my eyes. Jesus, I was going to lose her before I even had her. This couldn’t be happening. Please, no.

But it was. “Bugger him, Tom! How dare he! And you! How dare you!” She glared at me, a horrible vision, her eyes blazing and her mouth set hard in a straight line. She gathered her blanket and phone and trainers and stormed to the door. “How dare you think, for even a minute, that I could do anything to hurt you. How dare you think I’m not who I say I am, you horseshit prick!”

She grasped the door, yanking it open, nearly tearing the battered oak off it’s ancient hinges. I stood, making to follow after her, but she stopped me, showing me a firm-set palm of her hand. That gesture morphed into a harsh finger point, right at my nose. “You. You and your publicist can just sod yourselves, as far as I’m concerned. You know what, Tom? I never want to see you again! Fuck you, Thomas William bloody Hiddleston, fuck you and your fucking wallet!”

She walked through, pulled the door, and it slammed behind her; the lonely, sad, hollow, sound reverberating around my flat. Her heavy, uneven footfalls faded into oblivion as she descended the staircase, down, down, down, down and out of my life forever. 

Alas.

But, my friends, let me tell you something. That’s not how it happened. That’s how little brain thought it would happen, how it tried and tried to convince me it would happen…but I showed that bastard little brain a thing or two, yes I did.

Here’s how it happened.

“I feel a complete tit, Gabby,” I said. 

“Why?”

I squeezed her hands a little harder. “Because I am. Because I’ve a friend who was very seriously burned by a woman he’d met, out of nowhere, like this, like us, and I mean, he was burned rather seriously; because my publicist just reminded me of it; and because I’m a paranoid, stupid arsehole.”

She tilted her head. Jesus! Why does she…. I reached a hand out, grasped her by the back of the neck and pulled her to me, giving her a chaste kiss. “You know… I feel… I must tell you that it drives me utterly bonkers when you angle your head like that.” 

Gabby grinned against my lips. In the next moment, I felt her fingers and thumb squeeze against my cheeks, forcing my mouth into a comical moue. She pulled back, eyes peering down her nose and into mine. “You’re avoiding the subject, Tom.” She smiled, let go, and ran a soothing hand over my cheekbones. “Out with it. What’s the problem?”

“You are going to be furious with me for asking, Gabby, and you’ll think me quite strange.”

“Tom,” she lay her hands back in mine. “I may not have known that you were… who you are… and what you are… when we met yesterday, but I do now; and I know what it means, and I understand that there are sacrifices, and steps to take, and I know what the consequences are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

I smiled, dropping my gaze. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“And I already find you quite strange.”

“I’m sure you do.” I laughed.

“So,” she said, “go ahead. See if you can make me furious.”

And so, my friends, I told her. I told her about Luke’s concerns, told her that we’d have to proceed with an abundance of caution, told her about the press statements, and moreover, about Michael Binghamton, and my own silly, silly, pathologies. 

And you know what? Know what she said to me?

“It’s all good, Tom. I understand, really. I’d do the same thing if I were in your shoes. Let him run the check, nothing will come up. I’ll even cooperate with anything he wants to do.” She spread her arms wide, throwing her head back in a gesture of supplication. “Let me get vetted, baby. Do it! Commence the vetting! Make it happen.”

It’s all good, she said. She’d do the same thing, she said. Make it happen, she said. Whew. Bless her heart.

“Here, come here. I can get started on it for you, actually.” She took my hand and led me over to my Mac, gesturing for me to sit down, which I did. She opened it up, started Firefox, and put in the URL for a website I’d never seen before with a .gov.uk ending. She tapped in a username and a rather long passcode, clicked on a link, and we were at a search page. 

“Here you go, Tom,” she pointed at the screen. “This is a database I use for fire investigations when there’s a criminal element involved - not supposed to use it for the wrong reasons, but it’s to search on myself, so….” She shrugged. ”Anything you need to know about anyone in the UK or the US is right here. Personal info, job info, financial info, criminal dockets, property ownership, court records, you name it.” She pointed at herself, then the Mac. ”Search me,” she challenged, “go ahead. I’m an open book.”

Arse deep in my desk chair, I just sat there, stock straight, hands in my lap, feeling like a creep, like a class-A jerk. I looked from Gabby to the Mac, and back to Gabby, and back to the Mac. Resolved, I reached my hands out toward the Mac, set my hands in place, and slowly, yet firmly…

I closed the lid.

“I don’t need to.” I said, but then, inspired, I reopened the Mac, a mischievous grin forming on my face.

“Well, I wonder,” I said, lacing my fingers and cracking my knuckles. 

“What?” She replied.

“I wonder…what sort of dirt we can dig up on one Mister James Buckley?” I waggled my eyebrows. Gabby grinned broadly, exhaled a laugh, and waved a finger at me, silently saying, “Nuh, uh, uh, bad Tom. Bad, bad, naughty, naughty Tom.”

She twisted, sat her gorgeous arse down on my lap, laced her fingers through my hair, and kissed me, soundly, on the cheek.

Fie on thee, little brain.

Yet, little brain knew, somehow, that this wasn’t finished. Yet. 

Damn you, Luke.

***

The rain continued well into the afternoon. We’d resigned ourselves to taking a running rain check in favor of an early rise later in the week. I didn’t mind running in the duck’s weather, but Gabby knew her foot and leg wouldn’t do well with the water and on the slick pavement. 

So, to make quick of things, we a) made an American style lunch of tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches in her flat, and b) finally got around to watching Thor: The Dark World, the two of us plopped down on the sofa in front of her telly.

Gabby cringed and clutched at my chest every time Loki would set off in a yell or a tizzy, which was frequent; followed by a tentative gaze up at me, and maybe a poke at my face or a twirl of my hair.

“I just need to make sure you’re you.” She’d say. 

“I’m not a method actor,” I’d reply. “Loki’s Loki, and I’m me, and the twain only meet on film.”

To which, she’d say, “That’s a relief.”

But once or twice I’d catch her eyes roving over me in a strange way as she sat beside me, her mouth moving slowly, chomping on the popcorn; perhaps she was really frightened, or perhaps she was wondering in a prurient way — if some day, some how, Loki would merge with Tom. 

Maybe he would.

After passing the night and most of the day on one sofa or another, we’d decided some exercise would do us good. With a swat on the bum, I sent Gabby on her way to change into exercise clothes and to grab some of her gear, to wit: two body shields, two hand targets, and a pair of gloves.

Thereby, we went back up to my larger flat; to my loft exercise space. There, I was blessed with the honour of being Gabby’s personal punching and kicking bag for three quarters of an hour. I held up body shields (I started with one, but needed to use two, despite my macho protestations to the contrary) and hand targets, wincing and sometimes grunting in pain with each kick or punch until I got used to it.

“You’re cute,” she said, “how’d you put up with Chris Hemsworth and that other guy beating on you, then?”

I shivered at the possibility of encountering Gabby in defensive stance in a dark alley. Or worse, getting her angry. 

And yet, being pummeled by this woman was strangely… I’m not sure what it was. Enticing, intoxicating, exciting, and a whole lot of erotic, to put it bluntly. The intensity in her gaze, the wide stance in very tight yoga pants, the force behind her, the bounce of her breasts, the taut fury of her bum and her thigh muscles… especially the ones supporting her prosthetic leg…the vocalisations and heavy breathing on her part, yes. Erotic. 

I couldn’t help but imagine her moving like that whilst naked, and her breasts moving like that, and her making those noises in bed when I….

“Ahhh-Ta! Tom?! Tom! Oh my God, Tom! Oh, shit! Are you okay!?”

In the middle of my very, very, distracting rumination, Gabby hit the body shields with an all too well-placed offensive side kick. Being off-guard and off-balance, I fell, flipping arse over elbow, backwards, the impact sending me tumbling and skittering across the padded floor of my exercise room. 

“Aah, Fuck! Ouch!” I hit the opposite wall with a smack.

I wasn’t hurt, but the fight or flight reflex kicked in, adrenaline rushed through every cell and every fibre of my body, and with the jacked up state of my mind… the little brain really, really wanted to respond in kind. It wanted to get her back. It wanted to tackle her bodily, to take her by the waist and the back of the neck. It wanted, once again, the little bastard, to force her against the wall, and… you know. That.

But I didn’t. I behaved. Barely. In spite of being seriously and horribly turned on.

She grinned sheepishly, helped me to my feet, and patted my body, checking for injury. Which was quite considerate of her, but it did not help my jumped up testosterone levels. 

“Are you ok?” She laughed nervously, brushing at the back of my track jacket. “I’m so sorry, Tom. We can be done. We can be done now. I’m done.”

“No worries, I was… um, distracted,” I grinned, wickedly, “by you.” I grabbed her by the hips and kissed her soundly on the mouth. She kissed me back, generously, her hands weaving through my hair, moving downward, pressing against the small of my back. Nope! Didn’t help. Didn’t help at all. 

After we, meaning I, broke the kiss, my um, condition…. was only made worse when she started toweling the glistening sweat from her body, from her neck, her chest, between her… Jesus! And the little minx, she was looking at me while she did it! Little brain wished desperately to be that white cotton flannel running over every inch of her skin and….

Fuck!

I unzipped my track jacket, threw it to the floor, and immediately hopped up on the treadmill. If I didn’t pound out my sexual aggro through my feet, I’d be in grave danger of pounding it out on Gabby. Which at this time in our relationship, was not what either of us wanted. 

I never wanted to just fuck her. I meant what I said to Luke. I did not want simply to make the beast with two backs with her. No, I wanted to make love with her, when we did make love; and in the state I was in anything we did beyond the romantic basics would have been a knock down drag out fuck, and would have been wrong.

Gabby, bless her, went back downstairs to shower — there was another image, blimey! — and change.

I wasn’t a monk, by any means. I told myself there was nothing wrong with kissing… I felt my lips and tongue buzz, and I swiped at my mouth roughly with the back of my hand, tasting sweat salt… or touching, exploring each other for hours and hours and hours and…. 

My chest felt set afire. I groaned a little bit against it, breathing heavily, remembering the feeling of Gabby’s body against mine in the morning and during the film. I ran my hand down my chest, over my shirt, as I ran. I itched. My skin itched for her touch, my fingers itched to touch her again… the memory of the bare skin on her back… and I had to tear my singlet off and increase my running pace to get some relief from it.

By the time she came back upstairs, about an hour later, I’d finished my bare-chested run, and had just finished showering. So I, cheeky bugger that I was, answered the door with wet hair and in naught but a white cotton towel slung low round my hips.

Her eyes got wide, she blushed, and she dropped the bags of groceries she had in her hands straight to the floor of my landing.

Yes. Payback.

***

Bluebirds - Tweet Thirteen  
A/N: Virtual cookies to anyone who can guess who Tom will be playing in his upcoming project in this story. The hints are there.

Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Uncontrollably excited about a new project, and some new prospects. Life, my friends, is good. #stayhappy #loveyourlife

 

Gabby and I lay on my bed, our exhausted, sweat-sheened, and quite sated limbs all tangled together, tangled with the sheets and duvet. Her long hair, numerous pillows, cushions, a towel, her prosthetic leg, and bits of clothing were strewn haphazardly this way and that round the landscape of my bed and my bedroom.

It was a right mess, but a beautiful mess.

I reached down and scratched an itch at the top of my thigh under my boxer shorts. I reached out, and with the same hand, swept my fingers over the remainder of Gabby’s left leg, up to meet the spot where the broken flesh met her own pair of faded running shorts, skimming, in turn, upwards, to ghost over the bare flesh of her torso and trace the outline of the angels’ wings on her back.

I smiled, content, and sighed.

My friends, I wager you’re wondering how we reached such a state, in bed together, as we were, half dressed. As I am a gentleman, I will tell you what I will tell you, and you, my friends, must but let your imagination take you where it needs and desires to go. 

I will tell you the following.

I have a very good friend called Henry. Henry is near a height to me, perhaps a little shorter. He’s of a thin, athletic build — yet, willowy; a pale, tea-drinking, brolly-carrying, snooty Englishman. An actor. Very much like me. 

Henry’s long time girlfriend, Gina, on the other hand, is severe-looking, tall - Amazonian, even — she is built like, as they say, a “brick house,” extremely solid and muscular, foul-mouthed yet absolutely charming; a flag-wavin’, gun totin’, apple pie eatin’ American Woman. An MMA fighter. Not quite like Gabby, but like to Gabby enough.

I’d once — yes, only once, I’m not that much of a perv, you know —wondered what the makeout sessions between Henry and Gina were like; and once, during a drunken evening at Ewan’s flat, I came damn near close to asking Henry about it. 

But I didn’t.

And now I won’t ever have to, because, my friends. Now I know. Holy shit. 

Do you recall, a few bits of this tale back, when I told you that my little brain wanted nothing more than to take Gabby by the shoulders and throw her bodily against the back of her door and do naughty things to her and ravage her senseless? 

Yes? Well, that very thing happened.

But — in reverse.

There was a flash in her eyes, and a flurry of grocery bags and fabric and metal and flesh, and before I knew it, my door was slammed shut and I found myself, bare-arsed, plastered against it; the weight and sheer muscled solidity of Gabby’s body pressing upon mine in a nearly equal and opposite force to the ancient oak panels behind me. Christ, but she was strong.

Just as quickly, I tasted cherry lip balm, mint toothpaste, and Gabby; and felt titanium against my leg, and soft, yet firm hands explore my pectoral muscles. Fingers pressed down my back and into my spine, down, down, near my…. Oh, God! I let my eyes roll white and my head fall back with the sensation of it. 

Payback, indeed.

“Ah! Gabby!” I breathed, coming up for air. I felt like my character, Bill Hazeldine, being ravaged against the tree by Jewel Diamond all over again. My hands, like Hazeldine’s, seemed to flail and wave in the air of their own accord, tense and searching purchase on something, anything. I managed to regain a modicum of control over my body, and brought my hands up. I let a moan escape, caressed Gabby’s hair once, and pushed slightly at her shoulders. “Jesus, Gabby, what are you…?”

“I’m kissing you, you bloody fool,” she responded, and dove in to kiss me again. 

“But I’m….” I pushed her back again, and she groaned in protest. I motioned down, bringing her attention to my body with my eyes. “I’m starkers, love.”

“Whose fault is that?” She tilted her head — shit! why did she do that!? — and raised an eyebrow. “Not my problem you answer your door practically in your…,” her own eyes roved down my body and she grinned quite wickedly, upon which I felt a distinctive involuntary contraction within certain very naughty muscles of my body… “…birthday suit.” She caught my eye and grinned again. “Can’t be helped.”

Little brain was, at this time, jumping and whooping and hollering for joy, banging against and shaking its cage, begging for me to let him out.

So I did.

I inhaled quickly and deeply through my nose, and exhaled through my clenched teeth, showing Gabby, demonstrating my intentions with an extremely sharky, Michael Fassbender-like smile. I grasped her by her own shoulders, turned her, and placed those shoulders against the door. She arched against it, and I let her, knowing that if her back made contact with the wood, it could be painful.

But, she didn’t flinch. In fact, her eyes flew open, danger and desire writ large upon them. Driven on, I dove in for a kiss of my own, my hands working the hem of her old, faded Peter Gabriel Secret World t-shirt, and when she reached back and grasped the two sides of my bare arse, I was a gonner.

“You’ve… too many clothes, love.” I panted. 

***

I moved slowly so as not to wake Gabby. I looked at the digital readout on my bedside iPod dock. 7:48 PM. Only slept an hour. I stood up and stretched, yawning, and bent my body backwards, pulling toward the floor, working through the soreness and the delicious tension. 

I padded into the entryway and picked up the strewn grocery bags and the packages and boxes of food that had escaped upon my floor. On the way to the kitchen, I also picked up Gabby’s trainers, her bra, and her Peter Gabriel t-shirt. I folded the t-shirt and bra, and set them neatly on my table, with her trainers in a neat pair on the floor beneath.

Setting the grocery bags near the sink, I started sorting through the items. Once they were all out and in a neat pile, I stood back, trying to figure out what Gabby had intended with them. Dinner, obviously, but what?

My stomach rumbled in protest, demanding sustenance. I made quick work of washing my hands, and then I picked up the package of chicken breasts to put in the fridge. It would have to wait for another time. I brought out a block of aged white cheddar and a jar of Branston pickle and set them on the granite, intent upon making sandwiches. Closing the fridge door, I heard the distinct ‘click’ of Gabby’s leg ratcheting into place. 

She walked out of my bedroom; my small, decorative bedrunner draped around her shoulders. “Hi,” she breathed, leaning against the partition wall.

“Hi,” I replied. I licked my lips, once, tasting her upon them, and I’m sure my sigh could be heard all the way to Blackpool. “You okay?” I asked, padding over to her, and taking her into my arms. She nodded. I bent and kissed her, savoring the evidence of my own — holy crap, very intense — pleasure upon her tongue. 

“I’m, um… sorry.” She said, timidly. I blinked, completely perplexed. “I know, I mean, I know what you said to Luke, and I know we’ve only known each other for what… two days, but I um. I couldn’t wait…”

I kissed the top of her head, smelling citrus and satsuma in her hair. “Gabby,” I said, firmly. “We still have a lot to learn about each other, I know, and believe me, there is so, so much left that I want to do to you… I mean, with… you, but you know, this… us… this isn’t a normal situation.”

“I know,” she responded. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m willing to, like, just, you know… throw myself at….”

I interrupted her again. “I don’t think that at all, love,” I said, leading her out of the kitchen and back into the living area, “If I did, would I have touched you the way I did, or kissed you the way, or where, I did?”

“No.”

“Then, don’t worry about what I think.” I smiled at her. “Besides, you and I…we have a lot to do in a very short span of time for being just ‘us’ before I leave for Ireland.”

She plopped down upon my sofa, pulling the runner tighter about her. “You had to remind me, didn’t you.”

***

Earlier that day, Jack, the IT guy, had come out, in the rain to work on Gabby’s Twitter account and other things relative to her online security. So far so good, on the Twitter front. No strange tweets, no threats, no general nastiness. It appeared that the Twitter division of the Hiddlestoners had not yet found Gabby’s part of the Twitter universe. Thankfully. Jack, bless him, worked to prevent that while at the same time keeping Gabby’s profile available for professional purposes. Genius.

But I digress. Jack had also brought over a package from my American agent, which contained the finalized scripts (I’d already memorized the bits in the preliminary scripts) and shooting schedule a new project I was to embark upon in less than a fortnight.

I had explained to Gabby that I’d be gone to Ireland and then Scotland for the span of some months to shoot episodes of a grand, sweeping new American made mini-series. I was only to be in a few installments, and then again in the finale. Gabby was, surprisingly, more intrigued than sad, asking me a million questions about how the shooting works, what the schedule was like, where we’d be, and who my character was.

“He’s a right bastard, he is.” I explained to her. “English Army captain, stationed in the Highlands of Scotland in the 1740’s, pre-Culloden. Does some very, very, nasty things to the hero before the end. Very nasty.” I shuddered just a little.

“Niiiiice,” she’d cooed, “so you get to wear a wig with a queue and a lobsterback uniform, and really, really, really, tight trousers and really high leather riding boots?”

I gulped. “Um…yep.” 

“And do you get to ride upon big white horses and use whips and riding crops and such?” 

“Yeah,” I laughed, trying to diffuse the tension gathering deep in my groin, “but I also get to be punched, my garrison blown up, and I get to die a violent death at the hands of a strapping young ginger Scotsman at the Battle of Culloden.”

“I’ll be sure to cheer you on when I watch it. Sometimes it’s good to be the bad guy, right?”

“Oh, yes!” I said, pretending to twist an invisible handlebar mustache. “Oh, ho hoooo! Don’t I knoooow!”

***

Now, I sat beside her, and gingerly took her hand in both of mine. “Are you sure you want this… I mean, are you sure you want… me?”

She nodded. “Yes, Tom. I do, but….”

“But what?” I asked, smoothing back a wayward tendril of her hair. 

“I’m a little worried.”

“I know, me too.” 

“Are we rushing things?” She squeezed my hand.

“How about this, Gabby,” I prefaced, “you have your work to do. In fact, you need to go back to work tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replied.

“Well, then, take the day, yes?” I lowered my eyes to her, eliciting her understanding. “Take the day, let yourself be involved again with your work and your investigations and photographs and calculations and experiments, and let your mind wander away from me, from this weekend, and from us, and from the bed, and from any feelings you may or may not have….”

She interrupted me. “But, Tom, I do have feelings for….” 

I placed my fingertips gently over her lips, tapping them gently, quieting her. “Go to work. Go out on a fire scene. Let your mind wander away from us for a while, and then see how you feel when you come home. I’ll do the same. I’ll work tomorrow. I’ve the final scripts to commit to memory, I’ve a phone conference with Ron Moore, some correspondence to handle, and travel to work out, so I’ll do the same.”

She nodded.

“And then I’ll see you after all that tomorrow and we’ll see what happens. See if you still think we’re rushing things.” She nodded again. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

She leaned against me, heavy upon my body. I pulled her chin up to meet mine, and engaged her mouth in a slow, languid, gentle kiss, my lips and my tongue pouring every feeling, every sentiment I had into her. We pulled apart for a brief moment, and I whispered, my breath mingling with hers against her lips….

“I’ve feelings for you, too.”

***


	5. Tweets Fourteen through Sixteen

Bluebirds - Tweet Fourteen  
Tweets all/no replies

Vulcan Fire Investigations @vulcanfirecfi: We’d like to thank the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch for his visit to our office today. What a pleasant surprise! — Tina Brynn, CFI

 

 

The distant, hollow, sound of running water roused me into wakefulness. 

I’d been dreaming of Guinea, dreaming of dusty roads and motorbikes, frightened mothers, and sick children; happy voices shouting and singing in French and raucous football matches. 

For a brief, strangely lucid moment, I thought I was actually back in Guinea, years ago. I associated the banging, flowing, liquid noise I heard with the musical French voices of my Guinean friends, and our daily task of pumping the morning’s water from the nearby well. 

I took a deep breath, expecting to relive the distinctly Guinean scents of dust, cooking, humidity, jungle spray, and unwashed Tom.

Instead, I pressed my face into the pillow and inhaled the scent of fabric softener, with a slight overtone of citrus and satsuma. 

Gabby. 

I patted the bed beside me.

But she wasn’t there.

I blinked, working my eyes open; realizing where I was, and realizing the noise was water running through the building’s ancient pipes. I’d been so long without a downstairs neighbor when the flat had been vacant, and had myself been gone so long that I’d forgotten the strange workings of this place.

Once my brain caught up with my body, I remembered that Gabby and I had decided to sleep separate that night; and further sussed out that Gabby had, herself, awoken, and was in the process of showering.

Gabby. Showering. Gabby in the shower. Gabby in the shower with soap and hot, hot water, and her hands gliding over and on to her arms and her stomach and her… and… and… and…

Merde! Fils de pute!

I growled, deep in my chest, and kicked violently at the duvet, shoving it to the bottom of the bed. I groaned again as I stood up, stretching, yawning, scratching at my hair. I opened the long blackout curtains and squinted out into the still-dark morning.

The bedside clock read 5:46. 

So, Gabby was an early riser. Well, I thought, I may as well get up and get used to it if I were to… wow. I couldn’t believe what little brain was telling me. Little brain was telling me that I’d better get me arse out of bed and get going… and get used to getting up so early… if I were to sleep with Gabby on a nightly basis.

Just the thought of that made me smile a little, and worry a little – that I’d done the right thing by suggesting that we spend the night and a day apart. 

I plodded into the kitchen, plugged in the kettle, grabbed and scarfed down one of those Kellogg’s Protein bars I’d brought home from the States. I’d gotten addicted to the peanut butter flavoured ones whilst in L.A. 

After a cuppa and another protein bar, a quick shower (I never took long showers since Guinea), shave, and whatever else the male of the species does in the morning, I grabbed my phone and shot off a text to Gabby.

“Have a great day. Dinner tonight? See you soon. xx”

I heard the main door of the building open and close, and with that, Gabby was gone for the day.

Then her text pinged my phone. “Yes, dinner would be lovely, and yes, you will see me soon. Hopefully, all of me.”

I gulped. Jesus Christ with wheat bread on a peanut butter sandwich.

***

After my two days off, I’d resigned myself to work that Monday morning. After a quick text to Ben inviting him to an early lunch, to which he responded affirmatively, I set about my tasks.

Which were:

1\. To book a reservation for tonight’s dinner. Done.

2\. To call Ron Moore and get the finals on the shooting schedule. Done.

3\. To answer at least 90% of the emails in my inbox. Done.

4\. To sign some photos and respond to at least 30% of my fan mail. Done.

5\. To make my weekly phone calls to mum, dad, Emma, and Sarah. Done.

6\. To call my American agent and let her know I received the script and to thank her profusely and generally kiss her arse. Done.

7\. To call Ken Branagh and let him know I’d gotten the Hamlet script. Done. Well, voice mail counts; and

8\. To go over the new lines in the mini-series script, divide the scenes into beats, and commit them to memory.

I had the last finished by half ten. There were some new lines for my character, but not many. The new script contained mainly changes, but unfortunately the changes were significant. Yet, the changes excited me, because they made the man all the more frightening – and gave him a solid back-story I could work with. There was nothing worse than a bad guy who was a bad guy for the sake of being the bad guy. Now I had something to work with, like I did with Loki, and it was satisfying. This author and the screenwriter were pure genius.

I closed the script, having taken mental photos of the new pages, digesting them through those memory places in my brain and putting the information in the right spot. Yeah, Ben’s Sherlock had his so-called mind palace; I had my own secret weapon. 

A quasi-eidetic memory. I may not have remembered everything I saw or heard, but I remembered practically everything I read or wrote. Drove me bonkers with other things, but it was a huge help getting through Cambridge and RADA, made me look smarter because I could remember a lot of big words, and it was truly a bonus for a bloke in my career. 

Hooray for me.

***

At eleven, I closed the Mac, changed into a pair of jeans, a Queen t-shirt, and my black knit and fleece zip up cardi. I fastened my watch to my wrist, ran some Label M through my hair (yeah, yeah, I gave in; despite my desire for sloth, I couldn’t stand looking like a labradoodle), and headed out to meet Ben for lunch. We, Ben and I, had a nice, companionable meal together at that little hole in the wall vegetarian Asian place on the Tottenham Court Road, which Ben favored, and which was near Ben’s flat.

Ben and I talked. A lot. And it helped. A lot. With everything. Heaven bless Mr. Cumberbatch.

On the way to the restaurant, I had stopped at Carmichael’s and purchased a large, polythene-wrapped bouquet of peach roses. I left these in Ben’s capable hands, our plan and scheme fully in place.

Yes, I know. Roses. Unfair, right? Yes, I told Gabby that she should try to work and forget about us for a day to see if she still wanted to take a chance on a relationship with me. 

I never said I was going to make it easy for her to do so.

***

I walked back to my flat, eschewing the Tube, in favor of the niceness of the day. After Sunday’s rain, there was a sheen on the pavement, having just dried, the sun reflecting happily off of it. Even on a Monday afternoon in May, the streets and pavements were once again bustling with tourists. It reminded me of the day I’d lost my wallet, the day I’d met Gabby. Two days ago. 

The day I’d lost my wallet and… I think, I think the day I found my heart.

And that was the truth. Even after a morning apart I found myself missing her, missing the scent of her, the feel of her, and just the very knowing that she was there. If I felt like this for someone after two days, how would I feel after two decades? 

I knew how I’d feel, and I was certain of it. I could only hope and pray to God that Gabby felt the same.

I arrived back at my flat and picked up my post, accompanied by the sound of my iPhone ringing in my pocket. I pulled it out as I poked my key into the lock. The screen did not show a caller identification, but the number was a London number. I walked into my flat, closed the door behind me and answered.

“This is Tom, may I help you?” 

Screaming, whooping, and hollering like I’d never heard before in my life filled my ears through my tiny device. I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “What the…?” I said to myself, and again into the phone, “hello?”

“Tom?” It took me a minute to realize the caller was Gabby, and that she was calling from her business land line. “Tom, you are an absolute sweetheart, thank you so… oh!” another scream, “hold on, Tom, yeah?” another scream and what sounded like a woman having a massive conniption fit, and then Gabby’s muffled voice saying, “Tina, will you shut your gob?”

“Gabby?” I laughed. I knew exactly what happened.

Another scream, and then things seemed to calm down. “Tom? Tom?” Gabby asked. 

“Yeah, I’m here love.” I giggled again. 

“Tom, you are a wonderful bastard, you are.” 

I played innocent. “I am?”

“You sent Ben over here, didn’t you? Tina nearly lost the plot when she saw him!”

“Guilty as charged.” I picked up my post and started sorting through it. Bills. Great. I sat down at my desk and opened the Mac.

“That was brilliant, Tom. You and Ben, you’ve made Tina’s year. People heard her screaming four offices over and came down to see what she was on about. Ben, darling that he is, he signed autographs for and took photos with at least ten people.” She laughed as Tina yelled something nearly incomprehensible at me through the phone, something like “Best. Bloody. Boyfriend. Ever!”

My eyes widened. “Boyfriend?” I said out loud. Gabby heard me. Shit.

“Yeah, well. You did send Ben with flowers, which was very boyfriend-like.” I could hear the smile in her voice and it warmed the cockles of my heart. “Very nice, very expensive, very….” I thought I heard a hitch in her voice, “beautiful flowers, Tom. Thank you so much, that was so sweet of you. So incredibly sweet.”

I felt butterflies in my stomach like a daft, barmy schoolboy, but there they were. “Boyfriend?” I repeated. She’d told Tina I was her boyfriend. 

Gabby laughed, a gentle, beautiful, musical laugh. “Do you… do you want to be?”

***

Gabby rang off, telling me that she’d put the roses in a vase of water and placed them in the sunshine on her credenza. She also told me that she had a scene investigation that afternoon in Camden Town and would be back home near half six. Perfect.

What was even more perfect was someone I cared about telling me she would be home at a certain time, and I had something, and someone to look forward to. 

It had been a while.

I sat down at my Mac, a smile still on my face, intending to do reply emails to some of the responses I’d received from my own responses to their emails and so on and so on and so on. After doing that, I opened up Firefox and started to type the URL for the updated page of my social media outlet, WhoSay, in the box as Jack showed me.

When I typed the first letter of the URL, the government website that Gabby typed in came up on the history menu.

Little brain gave me a huge, painful poke in the ribs.

I selected the site, and the login box popped up. 

Little brain was an arsehole. Little brain was a fucking nosy brogan. Yet, little brain was desperate for some kind of escape from its idiotic pathologies and Luke’s stupid suspicions. 

Little brain moved my hands, typing the letters ‘GM’ into the username box. The box populated with what the Mac remembered of the rest of Gabby’s username. I dropped the mouse pointer down into the password box, and it, too, re-populated with little dots. Her hidden password.

Little brain was dancing with joy, like a kid in sweet shop.

I, on the other hand, was feeling like a prime heel, but I kept going. I pressed the “login” box and the site brought me to that search page I’d seen before.

I closed my eyes and sighed, shaking my head, ashamed. I told Ben about what Luke said, about his concerns about Gabby in the wake of the Michael Binghamton debacle. Ben looked me right in the eye, and said not to think on it. Ben said he was sure Gabby couldn’t have the job she had and the access she had if she wasn’t on the up and up, and that made sense. Ben, as usual, was right.

So, in spite of everything Ben had said, and everything my rational mind told me was true, and everything I knew about Gabby, I still sat there with that bloody screen open. 

I felt stupid and angry and guilty and invasive and vulgar and all around boorish for what I was even thinking of doing. I felt like a sinner of the highest degree, a betrayer of trust. A Judas. A bloody traitor.

And yet, I typed the name, Gabrielle, into the first name box and MacKenzie into the surname box. I hovered the mouse over the ‘search now’ button.

And then I heard her voice in my head, and the music of her happiness in calling me her ‘boyfriend.’ I pulled my hand away.

A right bastard, you are, Tom Hiddleston. 

Then again, I thought, as I placed my hand once again upon the mouse, she told me I could. 

***

Bluebirds - Tweet Fifteen  
A/N: A little lovin’ in this tweet. Tried to re-take some of Ms. Gabaldon’s advice from her article that I submitted the other day. Hope you enjoy. xx

Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Song of the day. “Relief” by Chris Garneau. #reallyfeelingittoday #ohyesiam

 

If you’ve studied the Classics and literature, then you know what a deus ex machina, or in English, a god in the machine, is. 

For those few who don’t, a deus ex machina, hated by Aristotle and other critics, is some external force that an uncreative author or playwright inserts into a narrative. It rescues the hero from a seemingly impossible conflict in order to (rather lazily) bring about an easy resolution and denouement.

Well, in my case the deus ex machina wasn’t created in my brain, or inserted by me into my own narrative. It just happened, and moreover, it had a very specific name — that of Luke J. Windsor.

My finger descended the millimetre toward the Apple Magic Mouse upon my desk, lower and lower in minute distances, lower and lower toward my possible betrayal of Gabby’s trust and invasion into her privacy. I had just touched the surface of the mouse…

… when my mobile rang out with the sound of tubular church bells. A joyous, lilting, lifting, Hallelujah song of restoration and salvation, once assigned by me to my new (and frequent) saviour, my publicist. 

My deus ex machina.

Yes, my friends, Luke Windsor’s call stopped me from clicking through to and technically hacking — oh my God, hacking! — into a God damn fucking government-owned, secured, sodding password protected website.

Hacking. Nice. Jesus, but I was daft.

I answered the call, at the same time closing out the window in Firefox. With a few more clicks, I instructed Firefox to delete all history and browsing memory. I had to remove the temptation.

But then, as I found, I didn’t need to.

“Luke, my friend. My good friend. I hope you’re still not working on holiday.”

“No, man. I’m suited up and ready for a morning dive.”

“Oh, man, that’s fantastic! But I’m sure you didn’t phone me up to tell me that you’re about to go swimming with sharks.” I opened up my bottom desk drawer and set my feet upon it. 

“Well, if that’s what you want me to tell you then I will, but I think what I do have to tell you is much more important. It’s about Gabby.”

My blood went cold. Immediately and uncomfortably cold. I swallowed against the immediate pressure in my chest. I took a difficult breath and sat up much, much straighter in my desk chair. “Okay, Luke, out with it. How bad is it? Criminal record? Cheque kiter, right? Thirty aliases? No, Luke, seriously. Is she… is she a mass murderer or something like that?” I leaned forward toward my desk, placed my elbow upon it and set my head in my hand, covering my eyes.

Luke laughed heartily, the sound of it ringing distant in the air as if he’d pulled the phone away from his mouth. When he finally calmed down and came back on the line he said, “Jesus Christ, you dolt. Knock that shit off will you? Put your imagination back in the cupboard, Tom. It’s nothing like that. You’re paranoid.”

I sat bolt upright. “Well, it’s your bloody fault I’m paranoid!” I exclaimed.

“My fault? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You had to bring up that thing with Binghamton last year.”

“Oh. I see. I seeeeeee….” Luke intoned, and then he paused. And then he laughed again. Harder. “You haven’t been thinking about that, have you?” I kept silent, brooding. “Oh fucking hell! You have been, haven’t you?”

“Well, no.” I said. “Well, yes. Maybe yes. No. Yes. Just a bit perhaps.”

Luke’s mirth was becoming tiresome. “Christ, Tom, you are a real gem, you are.” His laughter crescendoed and resolved once again. 

“Yes, Luke, very funny, Luke,” I said, sternly, “fine, fine… then what is it, then, what… what? Just… just out with it. Tell me.”

Luke chuckled. “They’ll send you the report, but you should show it to Gabby.” He became serious again. “She should know that there have been search hits on her information in some databases, and they’re not the usual hits.”

I had to let my mind process what Luke was saying. “So, so she’s… she’s clean, right? Nothing showed up? Nothing on anything?”

“Well, yeah,” he sighed, annoyance writ large in his rapid-fire words, “unless you count a speeding citation, but no, Tom. Gabby MacKenzie is Gabby MacKenzie, she is a certified bloody bona-fide fire investigator, and she’s clean as a whistle. Stop worrying. Cut the paranoia crap and just enjoy yourself, okay? I’m sorry I ever mentioned that Binghamton asshole.”

Inhale through the nose, blow it out. Thank God. “Apology accepted.” I ran a hand through my hair and down the back of my neck, relief spreading through my body. “So, what’s this about some hits or something?”

I could hear voices in the background speaking in another language. Luke’s words took on a hurried pace and tone. “Listen, when reports are run there’s a tag, or like a record, right? Some of her data has been looked into by someone out of the States. Dan will send you what he has by email, but she should just check it out, okay?”

The voices grew louder, I heard boat horns and bells and ropes slapping a jetty, and I sussed that Luke’s diving party was getting ready to disembark. “So, wait! What does that mean, then?”

“It means,” Luke said, quickly. “Someone has been looking for Gabby.”

***

At about half five, I’d just finished updating Twitter for the day, when I got a text from Gabby. She’d finished early and was on her way back home. She arrived at six, and I met her downstairs, in the alcove of her flat, with another single peach rose.

Yes, my friends. I’m anything if not romantic. 

She trudged in through the entrance door, scooped her post up from the hall table, and nearly dragged herself toward me. She looked absolutely knackered. She was still in dirty jeans and heavy boots and a Carhartt work shirt she’d obviously brought over from the states. Her yellow hard hat poked out from within her rucksack. 

She grinned happily when she saw me, and took the rose, bringing it to her nose. “Thank you for this, for all of them, they’re so beautiful.” She beamed, running a hand down my cheek. “You’re so handsome,” she said, and stifled a yawn. “My boyfriend’s gorgeous.” 

“Aww, love, bless you for saying that. All of it. Especially the boyfriend part.” I smiled, happy at her implied decision. We’d talk more about it later, but I hoped I got the gist. I opened my arms and took the two steps to envelop her in an embrace and give her a kiss, but I was stopped by a grubby hand on my chest. 

“You probably don’t want to do that, Tom,” she warned. 

I moved in again, and again, she stopped me. “Why not?”

She shot me an incredulous look. “Go on then. Take a smell.”

Stretching my head forward, I sniffed the air around her. “Ugh!” I recoiled. “You’re filthy and you smell like a petrol station.”

“That,” she said, touching the tip of my nose with her finger. I smelled more petrol in the air as she moved. “is exactly where I’d been.”

She opened her flat and I followed her in. Obviously, she couldn’t tell me much about the investigation, but she did tell me this. She’d been involved in the review of an explosion of a petrol station in Camden Town, one where the station owner was suspected of arson. Apparently, Gabby had spent the afternoon nearly knee deep in petrol-soaked wood and old groceries and metal and chunks of concrete. 

Now, that’s what I call fun. Bleech.

She showed me to her sofa and bid me sit. “I need to get out of these clothes and shower. Now,” she observed. “I’ll be right out.”

“I’d help you out of those clothes, love, but you’re foul.” I joked. “I’ll wait here for you.”

She started unbuttoning the Carhartt in front of me, and I felt a twitch in that part of me that would be expected to twitch at the sight of a strong woman making lewd eye contact whilst stripping out of her work clothes. She gave me a knowing grin and started walking down her hallway. I sat back down upon the sofa, sighing, longing, when I heard the shower start up.

I’d remembered my thoughts from that very morning upon hearing the water pipes engage. The images that my little brain conjured that morning once again materialized before me, and the takeover, once again, couldn’t be helped

My feet pushed up against the floor, my knees straightened, and they carried me back, back through the hallway nearly of their own accord, my dick leading the way from the living room to Gabby’s now steaming bathroom.

I opened the door and was hit with a wall of heat and moisture. I waved the steam away with a hand, and once it cleared, I saw Gabby’s silhouette — naked, wet hair cascading down her back, her body lithe, muscled, beautiful, as she was seated behind the frosted shower door. The smell of her shampoo — citrus and satsuma — perfumed the heavy air, and I inhaled lungfuls of the wonderful stuff such that I could almost taste the fruit.

Holy. Shit. 

I passed by Gabby’s leg, discarded on the floor, leaning against the side of the commode. I picked it up and moved it. She heard the noise. “Tom?” She called out. “Tom, is that you?”

I unzipped my cardigan, removing it quickly and letting it drop to the floor. “It’s me, love,” I said, my voice husky.

She froze, all movement ceasing. “What… what are you doing in here?”

“Well, you did text me to say that I would be able to see all of you tonight, right? I stripped my t-shirt off, relishing in the feel of the humid air permeating my bare skin. I ran a hand over my chest and down my arms, spreading the glistening moisture, my eyes remaining fixed upon Gabby’s form. I let my tongue snake out, tasting the water pooled above my upper lip.

“Um,” she replied, “I did.”

I unbuttoned the flies of my jeans, pushed the waistband down and stepped out of the trouser legs. I kicked them aside with my pants, purposefully making a noise against the side of the vanity. “Then, let me see.” I grasped the side of the frosted shower door, the metal warm from the water, and started pulling it back.

“No,” she cried. She pushed the door closed again. “Please, Tom, no.”

I blinked, confused, and my heart sank a little. “Why?” I asked.

“I’m just… I don’t want you to see….”

Seriously confused. “I’ve seen you already, love. All of you, and you’re beautiful.” She whimpered. I had no idea where this was coming from, and my playful mood was slowly dissipating. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t… stand up… I’ll slip… chair.” 

I studied her silhouette again. Yes, it was true, she was in a seated position. “Are you worried about me seeing you in a shower chair, is that it? Are you worried that, what? I don’t understand.”

“I hate this, Tom. I hate the thought of not being able to do something as basic as stand up for a nice long, hot shower. I can’t wear my leg in here and I feel like a fucking old lady or a god damn invalid with this shower chair and these sodding bars on the wall and….”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, truly stunned. “Do you think I’d not want you because of a chair and some bars? Don’t be daft.” 

“Tom, I look helpless and weak….”

Enough of this shit. I pressed my hand against the shower door to keep myself from pounding upon it. “My arse. Helpless? Hardly. Weak? Seriously? Come on, Gabby, that’s not like you.” I observed. “Listen, I’m coming in.” I opened the shower door, viewing her body from behind. I gasped at the sight, and my groin twitched in response. She turned, quickly, to face me. 

“Tom,” she said, quietly. 

“Gabby,” I replied, as I stepped into the dual streams of hot water - one in front, one in back — I grinned lasciviously, “It smells delicious in here. Just like you. Like a tart orange, and I’m quite hungry.” I palmed the water slicked skin of her shoulders, the heat radiating from her stiffened muscles into my hands. “You’re so tense, relax, Gabby. Please. Don’t be nervous. For me?”

“I’m trying,” she said. 

Her tension and apprehension remained for a few moments, until I bent to her, caressed her scarred back, moaning with the sensation and wet texture of it. It felt hotter than the rest of her. I kissed her neck and shoulders. She relaxed back into me, and I whispered the words, “I remain, and forever will be in awe of your beautiful, brave, angel’s wings,” into her ear. 

“I need you, Tom.” She said, the blush and perk of her body responding to me more than her words. She took my hand and led me, letting me step over her shower chair, to stand in front of her. “Please.”

I knelt before her, almost in worship, the shower sluicing over my head, and down both my back and my front. I kissed her, tasting the water and the scent of her shampoo, relishing in the softness of her lips and firmness of her tongue. “I’ve been waiting all day for this,” I told her, truthfully. 

She ran a hand over and through my dripping hair, and applied a gentle, downward pressure to the top of my head. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this.” 

It is my belief that, upon that very evening, I convinced Gabby to change her mind about the stigma of having to use a shower chair.

“Don’t stop.” She moaned.

***

Bluebirds — Tweet Sixteen

A/N Aaannnnnnd. Here we go! This is a much shorter one, but I think it needs to stand alone. Enjoy. And yes, this is the sweet sixteen. :)

Tweets all/no replies

Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: @twhiddleston. I just had a glass of Raimat Albarino. It is so choice. What’chu doin? Bored yet?

 

The warmly scented steam continued billowing in transparent clouds over the top of the shower door.

Its source was no longer the shower, however. The water had long since turned cold; and I had twisted my arm behind me and turned the tap off.

The source, rather, was us. Gabby and me. Our bodies, together.

Both of us were dripping wet and still warm from the very hot water, so hot that it stung, so hot that Gabby’s scars turned a bright red. It almost looked painful, but she showed no signs of distress.

I got my legs beneath me, and gathered Gabby into my arms. I shifted her weight from the shower chair to lay across the muscles in my arms and chest. At first, she resisted, her eyes round with apprehension; but then I kissed her, gently, chaste, upon her lips. By the time I pulled my lips from hers, she melted into me, limp and sated, her body telling me her true feelings, a Judas to her words.

“You don’t need to lift me, Tom,” she said, and her cool breath tickled the wet skin between my neck and shoulder.

“I know. But I want to.” I replied, shivering. I caressed down her back and set my arm across the curving base of her spine. I bent at the knees and lifted her. She curled further into me. Her knees drew up nearly to her chin beneath my arm.

Child-like, trusting. Trusting me. Wow.

I stepped out of the shower, stretched out my fingers and pulled the towel off the vanity.

“You don’t need to carry me,” she said, her fingers twirling into the curls of my still-dripping hair.

“I know. But I want to.” I repeated. I squeezed her shoulder, gently, wrapped the towel about her body, and kissed behind her ear. She whimpered, oh, so quietly. Citrus scented, cooled water dripped from her hair, over my arm and made little split splats upon the tile floor. I padded across said floor and out the bathroom door.

“I can get around fine on my own, you know,” she said, her head lolling against me. The deep huskiness of her voice reverberated within my chest cavity, bouncing off my ribs.

“I’ve no doubt you can.” I replied, pushing the door to her bedroom open with the ball of my foot. She wiggled slightly, her solid, muscular body strangely soft and pliant against my skin.

She moved her left leg, a quite miniscule movement, but the end of her stump made contact with that one very sensitive part of my body. Blood rushed downward, toward it. Craving contact. Gooseflesh prickled at my arms and raised the hair on my thighs.

I eased her down upon the bed. She stayed in the place I put her, leaning back upon her elbows, her good leg hanging off the bed. “I don’t need your help, Tom.” She said, quietly, averting her eyes.

“I know you don’t.” I finished drying the water from my own skin and hair and shook out the towel. I crawled upon the bed, on my knees behind Gabby. She sat up, her back to me. I lifted the towel in my two hands, and began drying Gabby’s hair and shoulders. She inhaled through her nose, and her head fell back, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m not an invalid, Tom,” she said, with just a tinge of harsh. “I’m quite capable of doing everything you can do.” She winced, obviously not intending the slight vitriol.

But it was there. It was out there. It would come between us. And it had to stop.

I stilled myself, and just sat there, quiet, breathing, being, behind her; my hands folded in my lap and the towel left draped about her shoulders.

A beat. I let it pass. Another. And another. Quiet.

I understood why she said what she said, but I needed to make something very clear to her.

Before we went any further — whether in bed, or in our lives.

“Gabby,” I whispered, leaning forward to my hands and knees, my mouth close to her ear, “I’d like you to simply listen to me, please. Please? Say nothing.”

She nodded, slowly.

“I will say this to you only once.” I turned my head, slightly, bringing my lips to her earlobe. I smiled as I kissed her there, once, slow and lingering, if anything to let her know I wasn’t angry with her. But I needed to be firm. “Know that I would do all these things for you even if you had never been in that accident. I would do them for you even if you hadn’t lost your leg.”

She sobbed, once. I shifted my weight and came up closer behind her, embracing her in across her chest, my arms and hands set across her breasts.

“Tom, I….”

“Shhh.” I soothed her with a kiss on her shoulder. “Gabby, I would care for you like this even if you were super human, if you could fly, or if you could bend steel bars with your bare hands. Even if I were the one who’d been injured, I’d still care for you this way.”

Gabby gulped and swallowed air again, and turned within the circle of my arms. She stared at me, her eyes glistening, sparkling, her mouth set in determination — for a beat, and then she softened. She caressed the side of my face with her fingers, and moved in, swiftly for a kiss.

I pulled back, she whimpered. “Do you understand me?” I smoothed her wet hair back behind her ear. “Do you understand — that I know you would totally be the one taking care of me sometimes? Especially like when I’ve got the flu, or a cold. I’m a miserable sickie, you know.” She laughed. Oh, thank God she laughed.

I brought one of my legs around behind her, and nudged her forward with the heel of my foot. I gathered her back to me, holding her head to my chest. Her own arms encircled my torso, squeezing me tight.

“Gabby,” I said, my voice hitching, “you are the strongest, smartest, most stubborn bloody woman I’ve ever met; and you’re a bit scary, sometimes, to be honest,” I laughed, as did she, “and for you to even think, for a moment, for even a second, that I would think you weak or helpless enough that you need to be treated like an invalid or a child, well, then I’m doing everything wrong.”

She sighed, melting deeper against me, and I had my answer. She raised a hand to touch a finger to my bottom lip. “I do want you so, Tom,” she said. “Please.” She tipped her face up to mine, a plea writ large upon it.

“But… is it…?”

Too soon? Oh, Jesus, how could I possibly hesitate? How could I even think of such things when Gabby was right there, naked, in my arms, the taste of her still upon my lips, my own nakedness — and my own arousal — so stark and so obvious and so wonderful?

And more, when I knew how I felt, and what I wanted; and when Gabby clearly felt and wanted the same.

But then, it was my own fault we were there, in that state. I’d chosen to go into the shower, to pleasure Gabby with my lips and teeth and tongue under the flow of the water, to taste her there, to carry her here, to her bed.

“Tom, please.”

And whatever reserve I had, whatever second thoughts or worries or hesitations I had about this… about us… Gabby and I… dissolved like the steam from the shower, as vapour into the atmosphere.

I pushed her back, grasped her head between my two hands, and kissed her, my lips and tongue seeking knowledge of her, of all of her. I allowed my hands free rein to roam, over her back, tracing the angel wing scars there like I had before, and down to the warm, soft, pliant flesh between her legs.

She moaned, the vibrations moving through my mouth and traveling down my body right to my core. I felt that very moan in a spot between my own legs, and I felt a certain set of muscles twitch. I moaned back into her, returning the sensation, feeling her own muscles contract and tighten around my fingers.

With a sudden flurry of movement, I found myself on my back, Gabby hovering over me, her hair hanging down like a wet curtain around my head. I gasped with it, growled deep in my chest, and grasped her, very tightly, around her hips. I probably left bruises. My jaw tightened, teeth clenched, and I sucked in a hiss of air through them. I exhaled and my eyes went wide and round. “Christ!” I exclaimed.

She grinned, quite wryly. “No,” she said, reaching back, torturing me with her fingernails against my thighs. She shifted her focus, ghosting over my chest, her fingers dipping lower beneath her own body. “Just Gabby.”

I laughed and lifted her up, again by her hips. I shook her a little to make her put all her focus upon me. “Gabby,” I said, panting. The heat coming off of her radiated downward, enveloping me. I twitched again, and she felt it. She grinned. “Gabby, are you sure?”

She reached beneath her, keeping her eyes on me, and grasped me, firmly, pointing me upwards toward her own body. I hissed, convulsing with the sudden pressure, the anticipation. I wanted that warm, softness around me, I needed it. I could already feel it. I craved it. I groaned, once, a long, rolling sound, and my eyes fluttered back.

“I am,” she whispered. “I am if you are.”

“Oh, please, yes.” I sat up, quickly, grasped her about the hips again, and pushed her down upon me. We both reacted violently, shuddering and moaning with the combined sensations.

And Christ Almighty, but that night, Gabby showed me just how utterly and completely capable she truly was.

***


	6. Tweet Seventeen

Tweets all/no replies

3 June

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Yes, my friends. Back to work for me. #surprisesinstore #bigthingscoming #uncontrollablyexcited

 

The tall, handsome woman before me crossed her legs at the knee demurely beneath the chair, her back straightening ever so slightly. "So, what do you think he would say about this little... predicament, hm?" She asked, eyelashes batting, her emphasis upon the word, 'he'. She took a sip of tea, eyeing me knowingly, sweetly -- spitefully -- over the brim. 

Her threat - for surely it was a threat - made my hands shake, damn them. My right hand twitched, involuntarily swiping the teacup beside me. I upset it, and the cup bounced off my table, down my lap and hit the carpet beneath with a dull thud.

"Blast!" I cried, wiping frantically at my shirt and trousers, grunting against the burning pain of hot tea as it seeped through the fabric to my already heated skin.

"Tsk," she said, reprovingly, brushing crumbs from her decolletage, "that will stain, you know."

I stilled, stiffened, and menaced at her, renewed anger pooling deep and flowing wide. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction, no I would not. Damn her. Fuck it. I left the teacup where it lay. A small muscle ticked in the side of my neck, but I paid it no mind.

I sat back down, glowering at her from across the table.

She took another sip of the tea, finishing with a small "mmmm." She tipped her head and smiled, a closed-lipped, mirthless smile. She batted her eyes at me yet again. My heart skipped once, and I found myself attracted in a very strange way to that combination of gestures. Especially the head tilt. Damn her.

Part of me wanted to throw myself over the table, kiss her senseless, rip her dress from her body, and take her right there, whether she was willing or not. The other part of me wanted to punish her, to slap the smirk right off her pretty little head. 

My hand twitched yet again. 

"No," I shook my head. "It's impossible."

"What's impossible?"

"He would have told me about you, who you are. Besides, if you were working with the man, then why the devil has your behavior been so damn ridiculous?"

"Perhaps he's testing you," she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with my handkerchief, "perhaps he's concerned about your loyalty."

My fists clenched and my lip curled, both of their own volition. I spoke levelly, evenly -- dangerously. "You, on the other hand, seem to be concerned with testing the level of my gullibility; either that or my tolerance to irritation." I flattened my hands upon the table top, my elbows bent, ready to spring. I raised a single eyebrow. "I will inform you that both, my dear, are extremely low."

I pushed up aganst the table and stood, swiftly. She flinched. I took a quick step to the right. She flung herself to my left, toward the door. I lunged at her. She grasped the handle of the teapot and, with a howl, flung it at me. I dodged, and the teapot hit the door with an invigorating crash. I bared my teeth, snarling, and lunged again, faster, my hand striking out at her. I grasped the back of her neck and pinched her roughly between my long fingers and my thumb. 

I applied an amount of pressure I was sure to be painful. 

She cried out, tilting her head back, her hands scrambling at my arm and my face, scratching at any skin she could find there. 

It hurt. I growled against it and tightened my grip. I loved it. I wanted more. 

I released her neck and grasped both her hands in one of mine, taking control. I dragged her bodily to my worktop. She tripped over her own feet, crying out in small, quiet grunts. 

From there, I picked up a long strand of rope, dangling it in front of her face, taunting her.

"What sort of a man has to keep rope in his desk drawer?" she sneered, panting with indignance.

"A prepared one," I responded, tersely. I flipped her over, and tied her securely behind her back. I ran light fingers down her bare arm, and she gasped, squirming against my touch. 

Perfect.

I reached out once more and grasped a long, heavy-bladed knife. I turned her around to face me and brandished the blade at her, twisting the metal to and fro, subtly entertaining her, enchanting her with the brightness and sharpness of the knife's edge. 

It was all quite satisfying thus far. She shrunk back, away from me, the combination of fear -- and what, did I see... some passion there, perhaps -- making her eyes go wide and her irises nearly black. I followed, cat-like, stalking. She hit the wall with a loud thump when she could go no further, and she gasped once again.

"Now," I said, lowering the blade's point and pressing it between her breasts, "you are going to tell me." I pressed the blade a little harder. "Take as long as you like. I'm in no hurry." I pressed down further still, directly over her heart. "I'll gladly wait."

I drew the blade in a circle around her breast. I held my breath for a beat, my exhalation coming slowly. I fought for control over my shaking hands. I fixed my eyes upon hers, my jaw and lips set in a hard line. 

Her increasing panic and hatred looked to me in my state as if ardor, desire, lust... whatever it was; it was all the more stimulating, breathtaking, beautiful. 

I crooked a half-smile. 

She shifted her weight and darted away from me. I caught her up again and shoved her hard, her back against the edge of the table. I smiled hungrily, pressed into her and thrust a knee between her thighs, forcing them open. She fell backwards, spread upon the table like so much of a holiday feast.

I pawed at her breast with the hand that held the knife, relishing in the feel and texture of it, the nipple that was quickly hardening under my touch. With my other hand, I gathered up her skirt and yanked it up over her waist. She kicked out at me and I grasped her foot, running a hand up her leg to steady her, caressing the skin there, whispering niceties to her like one would gentle a spooked horse.

"You can scream if you want," I bent forward, murmuring in her ear, tasting the skin at her neck. I brought one hand down to work at my trouser fastenings. "I'll certainly enjoy this more if you scream."

She pulled her head back and looked me dead in the eye. Fierce, this one, and brave. Quite brave. Her lip curled in disgust. She spat, "Get stuffed!"

I roared, jamming my hips against her, harder, struggling, concentrating, my frustration growing exponentially. I dropped the knife to the table and twisted the flesh of her breast, hatefully, vengefully. I did so from spite as my own body had refused to cooperate. 

It refused, the fucking bastard, to send blood and life and solidity to that one part that I needed most at that moment. I had so much want, so much desire, so much hate, so much to control, to take, to destroy, to fuck, and my goddamn body would not respond.

I knew what it needed. What I needed. I needed proof of her fear. I needed to hear it. I needed for her to scream. Just once.

And she surmised just that very thing. Damn her.

"Oh," she said, grinning wickedly, her eyes afire, "like that is it?"

In a paroxysm of fury, I raised the back of my hand up, bringing it down in a swift and sure arc toward her face.

And stopped just short of her left cheek. 

She winked at me, reached back, and set her script back down upon the table. "Nice work, love."

"Yeah? Was that okay?" I stepped back, helped her up, and reached for my own copy of the screenplay. I turned to the dog-eared page to review the lines and blocking again. 

Gabby straightened up, shaking her arm out, wiggling out of the rope that bound one of her wrists (Really, how could she read the lines if I'd bound both of them, now?). She held her hand up and I helped her slip it the rest of the way off. 

"Okay? You were fucking scary as shit, Tom," she replied, matter-of-factly. "I'd hate to be Ruth when you do that for the cameras." 

"Nah," I said. "I've worked with her before. She's tough, that one. She'll fight me more when it comes time to do it. She'll scratch me a hell of a lot harder than you did. She's not afraid to break the skin."

Gabby worked at her hand, opening and closing her fingers. She tried to keep me from seeing, but I did. I lifted it to my lips and gave her small, quick kisses along her wrist and the back of her fingers. Her skin was a bit red from being pressed between her body and the table, and I felt a twinge of guilt. 

"I'm sorry," I said, smoothing my hand over hers, "got carried away." I examined the rest of her, and cringed a little when I saw the reddening marks beneath the back of her head in the exact same shape as my fingers. "Here, too." I ran my fingers gently over the cords in her neck, and laid a kiss there as well.

"You're supposed to get carried away to an extent, love," she replied. She turned to me and held the two sides of my face. She brought her lips to mine. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be doing your job." 

She kissed me, soundly and thoroughly. "Next time," she whispered, her lips still close to mine, "tie me up tighter -- both hands -- and squeeze me harder," she said, seduction creeping into her voice. "If you do, then maybe, just maybe, I will scream."

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. 

I paused, thinking. Or not thinking. Most likely not thinking. Definitely not thinking. I'd suddenly lost the capacity to think. It became impossible to think. I felt my eyes widen and my entire face tense up. 

Along with other parts of my anatomy. Which, in this case, would have been entirely out of character.

But I could deviate from script. Just this once.

I licked my lips and exhaled, hard. "May we, um..." I said, timidly, swallowing hard, "may we, er, go over that bit again... please?"

***

A/N Thank you and credit to Diana Gabaldon for the inspiration for this scene. If you haven't figured it out, Fictional!Tom is working on the dual role of Capt. Black Jack Randall and Frank Randall.


	7. Tweet Eighteen

11 June

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @ZacharyLevi. Hear you're done in Spain. What'chu gonna do now?

Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: @twhiddleston. The question is not what I am going to do, the question is what am I not going to do.

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @ZacharyLevi. Like, licking the glass and making obscene gestures with your hands?

Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: @twhiddleston. Nah, I'll become a fry cook on Venus. Or go to the zoo.

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @ZacharyLevi. Sooner or later, everyone goes to the zoo. 

I woke early that Saturday morning, crawling ever so carefully out of Gabby's four poster bed so as not to wake her. The day before, she had finished a week of prep for and two days of gruelling testimony in a deposition for a New York based lawsuit. She was well worn out from the intense, and sometimes adversarial, grilling she'd received at the hands of a room full of bloodsucking American lawyers. 

Poor darling.

But on the bright side, she'd looked incredibly hot in a business suit. 

Well, I thought it best to let her sleep. As much as I, er... wanted to do otherwise, especially after, you know, thinking of her in a business suit.

Meeee-ow.

It had been exactly a fortnight - almost to the very minute, in fact, - since I'd met Gabby, and not to sound cliche, but I felt as if I'd known her for my entire life, like she'd always been there, always been a part of me. 

Yeah, it was like that. Shut up.

I tiptoed upstairs to my flat, opened the Mac and knocked off a few tweets to Zac. I'd been horribly remiss on that front and needed to catch up. More Ferris Bueller hilarity to test the mettle of my aural memory. It turned out a bit nonsensical but funny nonetheless.

Then, I padded into my room, raided the wardrobe, and changed into a singlet and some shorts. I threw on a baseball cap, attached my iPhone via armband to my upper arm, stuck my Ironman ear buds in, and laced up my favorite pair of red and white Pearl Izumis for a run.

Before I left, I let myself back into Gabby's flat (as we'd exchanged keys, you see, much to my delight), and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. I whispered to her, "Going for a run, love; back in a tick," and, after receiving her sleepy grunt as a signal of understanding, and hearing her mumble something about a sparring lesson, I headed out the door.

I took my usual, long route twice along the Embankment, across the river, and wound through Battersea Park. I paced my run to the music of Fitz and the Tantrums (great for slow-fast-slow fartlek runs, by the way), and let my mind wander. 

First, I'd wondered how many miles I had on the Izumis and decided it was time for a new pair. I'd have to visit Fleet Feet sometime before I left for Ireland. Perhaps I'd get the blue and silver ones this time.

Then, my thoughts wandered to the events of the past week, and I couldn't help but chuckle a little.

The week before was final rehearsals for the mini series at Ealing Studios -- which proved, well, interesting. The company had only a few days to firm things up -- no pun intended, as you'll see -- until we left for Ireland to knock out the principal film work at Earlkennie Castle and its environs.

The final rehearsals for one of my scenes with Ruth -- the pivotal scene of the first episode -- proved especially um, well... challenging.

Why, you ask?

Because I had made the daft arsed mistake of rehearsing that bloody scene again with Gabby a few days earlier. 

And yes, I went off script. Waaaaaaaaay off script. Jesus Christ as a temperamental horned-glasses wearing beret sporting hipster screenwriter with a bloody cigarette holder did I go off script. 

Let's just say the mini-series would have had a completely different story line if things turned out between Claire and Jack Randall as it did that last Saturday afternoon between Gabby and I. 

I say no more.

Well, okay, I will say this. Yes, we played the scene out again. Yes, I tied her hands together, but I did not do so tightly at all. Yes, I grasped her neck again, but no tighter than I had done during the prior run through.

So, yes, we had our fun in the way that such things are fun in the proverbial sack, but otherwise, Christ. No, I'd never intentionally hurt her.

What sort of arsewipe do you think me?

Wait. No. Don't answer that.

So, here was the challenge with work. Remember little brain? Yes, I know I haven't mentioned him in a while, but he was still there. Lurking. Lying in wait. Little brain is an omnipresent force. Always there.

Always watching you, Wazowski..., aaaaaaalwayyyyys waaaatchinggg.

Little brain, however, does not know what a screenplay is. Little brain does not know what acting is. Little brain at times has a very difficult time discerning reality and fantasy, the little barmpot.

To wit: Ruth and I had rehearsed our scenes on that Wednesday over at Ealing. Now I know that you've already an idea of what that one particular scene was like, so I'm not going to go over it again, my friends.

Just know that toward the end of the first run through with Ruth, little brain behaved quite like Pavlov's dog -- it thought it was going to be rewarded with the same nice, warm, cozy, soft wet flood of testosterone and adrenaline it had previously received from Gabby.

And so, little brain had caused my body to respond with turgid anticipation. Yes, my friends, thanks to Gabby, and that scene, I got a goddamn hard-on... and what was worse?

Ruth had felt it. On her leg. 

So, when Ruth said her line, "Oh, like that is it?" She could barely keep her laughter at bay. The line had the exact opposite meaning as the author intended. 

Yeah, you too? Fine. Go ahead and 'ave a laugh. 

Go on, I'll wait. 

Finished? Yes? Okay.

I threw myself off of Ruth and immediately sat down in a nearby chair, crossing my legs, panting with annoyance, embarrassment and concentration, praying the thing would go down. Thank God I'd been wearing a pair of my old loose fit jeans from my Wallander days. 

I bent over, head in hands, raking my fingers through my hair in a feeble attempt to control my own laughter. "Oh, Jesus, Ruth. This is terrible. Awful. I'm a complete and utter brute and an arsehole. Christ, I'm so so sorry." I looked up at Ron, wincing, sheepishly holding up a hand to him, "I'll be fine in a minute, I'm so incredibly sorry."

Ruth shook the rope from her hands and bent over, doubled up in laughter. "Tom, love, but you are a beast!"

My face grew exponentially hotter and I'm sure it became quite redder.

Ron just stood there, his hands upon his hips, fighting his own laughter, his mouth quirked up to one side and his eyes sparkling with mirth. After a moment he called out, "Hey! Janine!"

Janine, my wardrobe assistant, shouted back, "Yeah, Ron?"

"Add three inches to the bottom of Tom's waistcoat, and an inner pocket for the breeches, will you?" The laughter had burbled up, and burst, full force, from within Ron's chest. "I think... I think he'll need it."

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

So of course, when I had told Gabby about it, she, too, nearly died from the paroxysm of her own extensive mirth. 

At least she wasn't angry about it. In fact, she had said to me, "I'd think you dead if you didn't get a hard-on round Ruth Wilson. She's gorgeous."

Bless her.

Upon that moment, I had known it was true love.

***

Continuing my run, I made the turn in the path, running from the park back up to the bridge. Suddenly, the pounding, Motown rhythm of my music became replaced by the louder, lilting tone of the Sherlock theme music.

Ben was phoning me.

I sprinted the rest of the way across the bridge, leaned against the abutment, and pressed the answer slide on the iPhone attached to my bicep. "Hang... on... Ben... running...." I panted.

"Take your time, old stick." Ben said, calmly. 

I took about ten seconds to catch my breath. The bridge was near the end of my run and I had been pushing hard for a strong finish. "Okay. Okay, what's up?" I asked.

"Not too much," Ben replied. "I've a lunch date today, and if luck is on my side, perhaps more."

I raised my eyebrows, and brought the earbud mic closer to my mouth. "Date? Wow! That's brilliant! Date? Really? Honestly?"

"Yes, date." Ben said, deprecatingly, "I do date now and again, you know."

I laughed, grasping at the new cramp developing in my side. I bent over against it to relieve the pressure. "Who is it? You're not back with Olivia again, are you? It's not Gwendolyn, right?"

"Nah," Ben replied, "It's Tina. I asked Tina to lunch today." When I didn't respond, he continued, "you know, Tina."

I scrunched up my nose and blinked rapidly, my brow furrowed. "Tina? Who the fuck is Tina?" The cramp had passed and I rubbed at my abdomen. 

"Tina." He repeated. Ben remained silent for a beat. Waiting for me. 

But it didn't take long. Aha and oh my fucking god.

"Tina!?" I nearly shouted. "Jesus Christ, man! You mean... Tina? As in, Gabby's partner, Tina? You asked Tina out?"

"Guilty as charged," came the reply.

I chuckled. "Does Gabby know?"

"She will now, I imagine." Ben replied, sheepishly. "I just phoned Tina five minutes ago."

"Well, well, well," I replied, starting to walk back to the flat, "you sly devil dog you. Congrats. She's fucking gorgeous, she is."

I could almost hear the shrug in Ben's voice. "Well, when you got it, darling, you've got it." I laughed again with Ben, and his laughter died down quickly. "Got something else for you, mate." He said, quieter.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Jim Buckley pulled his funding from Curious Incident last week."

My eyes went wide. "You're joking," I said. "Why?"

"Not certain, but Ian told me that amongst other more business related things, Jimbo'd mumbled something about having been humiliated by a greasy cunt of woman, I quote... and pardon my French."

"Fuck," I replied, in shock. "Is it... because of Gabby kicking him in the balls?"

"Dunno," Ben said. "Could be. Jim's an arse. Could have been one of any number of women."

"Is it problematic?" I asked, turning the corner, "I mean, does it kill cash flow?"

"Nah," Ben replied. "I don't give a shit, neither do the other partners. I didn't want him involved in the first place, and the show's making enough at the box that his money doesn't matter. Never did in the first place."

"How much was he in for?" I asked.

"Confidentiality. Can't tell you." Ben said, tersely. 

"Oh," I replied, my heart sinking, "that much."

"Not really, to be honest. Less than me. Besides," Ben chuckled, "I'm glad to be rid of the fucker. He treated the other investors like children and tried to take too much creative power. I'm glad he's pulled out. It'll be a better show without him."

"Jesus," I breathed, "do I tell Gabby?"

"Not now, I'd surmise," Ben replied, "it's not overly necessary, but I wanted to let you know that Jimbo could be on the warpath, you know, just in case. I know you'll be abroad for a bit, I just wanted to give you fair warning, if such... warning is needed."

I nodded, poking the inside of my cheek with my tongue. I made a clicking noise and said, "duly noted, my friend, duly noted."

We talked briefly about the mini series, and fuck me if he'd already heard about my little "problem" with Ruth. He laughed at me, the smarmy git. 

I said a brusque, "Goodbye, Benedict," and rang off.

Things got around too damn easily in this business.

***

I dug my keys out of my shorts pocket and turned the lock in the front door. Collecting both my and Gabby's post from the floor, I walked into the front hallway toward Gabby's door alcove. 

I slipped my key into the slot on Gabby's door, grasped the handle, and before I could turn it, I heard one of the most heartbreaking sounds I think I'd ever heard in my life.

It was Gabby's voice. Muffled as it was, it sounded breathless, excited, and the words were distinct: "Yes, yes! Give it to me again! Again! Yes!"

What. The. Fuck!

I listened for a few more seconds and then I heard a male voice, grunting with effort and making his own breathy sounds of forced exhalation in counterpoint to Gabby's.

No fucking way, there's no fucking way, this can't be happening, I thought. Little brain was laughing at me, the arsehole. I hated little brain. Little brain was working me up. He wanted to barge in there and beat the living shit out of whoever dared even touch my Gabby. 

But the rest of my body disagreed.

I became rooted to the spot. My heart started thumping against my rib cage, and the matter of my breakfast churned threateningly within my gullet. My head was spinning. I felt dizzy and sick.

Gabby's voice came again, "Yes, twist it like that, before you move in again, wait! Just a little... up, wait... yes, that's perfect," and then I heard a few more grunts -- from both of them this time -- and then Gabby's voice once again, "bring it in and out, back and forth, in and out, yes, yes, yes!" 

More male grunts, and his voice, "Like this? Is this good?" now followed by a sickening smacking noise, like skin on skin, almost, but muffled, almost like the slap of... Jesus fucking Christ, was that the sound of -- leather? 

The more I heard the more little brain was winning out. And when I heard Gabby yell, "That's it! Yes! Take me now! Pound on me, now! Pound me!" I completely lost the plot.

I twisted the knob violently, shoved my shoulder into the door, letting it fly open against the opposite wall. I bellowed at the top of my lungs (which was significantly loud), "Who is that bastard and what the bloody fucking hell is going on in here, Gabby!?"

At which time I felt like so much Robin Tripp in Man About the House. 

A right tit. 

The blockhead in a sex farce.

Joke was on me. Me and my little brain.

Gabby stared at me, completely and utterly horrified. So did... her student. Or this person who I thought was her student. Gabby stood on one side of her living room, her hands up, holding two red hand targets. The other, the man, stood in a defensive stance, sparring gloves on his hands. When he saw me, he dropped his stance and stared, shock and a growing anger burning in his eyes.

And I was right scared. 

This guy? Built like an MMA fighter. Like a freaking professional body builder or something. I swear he was bigger than Chris Hemsworth and then some. Taller, broader, and from the look on his face, much, much meaner.

And angrier. He looked about ready to rip my goolies off.

And then I saw he was wearing a very tight-fitting Bristol Fire Brigade t-shirt. Bristol fire brigade. I'd seen that shirt somewhere before... oh. My stomach flipped with realization and my eyes became very very very wide. I held up my hands in surrender, alternating between that and covering my mouth in sheer embarrassment. "Oh, no. Oh, Gabby. I'm... oh, God, I'm so, so sorry... I, uh, Christ." I babbled.

Gabby grinned at me and shook her head. Suddenly, Gabby burst out in a fierce bout of laughter. She tilted her head, strode up to me, and draped her arm around my waist. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, "Tom, I'd like you to meet my cousin, Jonathan."

Oh. Right.


	8. Tweet Nineteen

Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Song of the day. Mama Said Knock You Out. LL Cool J. Don't call it a comeback.

 

Jonathan MacKenzie. Gabby’s older cousin. Remember, my friends, he was that particular relative of Gabby’s who had expressed over Twitter a desire to... how did he put it? Oh, yes. To "murdelize” me if I’d so much as laid a finger on Gabby?

Yeah, that Jonathan MacKenzie. That guy. At least eighteen stone, all of it muscle. Six foot three in his stockinged feet, biceps the size of Mons Meg, neck like the trunk of that one oak tree in Dover that I'd seen as a kid.

That guy.

And once I'd gone back upstairs to change out of my sweaty running things and into more respectable garb (including a pair of heeled boots to make me look slightly taller), Gabby had left me alone with him.

She did so, leaving me alone with him, only after taking me aside in her kitchen and telling me the following:

a) Jonathan was like an older, very protective, brother to her, her only biological brother being ten years younger than she was;

b) Jonathan was in town for a fortnight on a training exchange with the London Fire Brigade; and

c) Jonathan was the only member of her family who flew abroad to the US and stayed by her side during the majority of her recuperation after her injury.

And so, therefore, she begged me to be nice to him.

To which I inquired, “Why wouldn’t I be nice to him? Aren’t I nice to everyone?”

She flashed me an odd, sympathetic look, and gave me a pat upon the cheek. “Of course you are, love, but please. Just. Just try with Jon, okay?”

Which in all honesty did not bode well for the rest of my morning.

So, with that, Gabby went off to teach her adult sparring class at The London Centre of Martial Arts, and I stayed behind, in her flat, to entertain dear Cousin Jonny. I know I very easily could have left, could have gone and hid in the safety and sanctity of my own flat, but I didn’t. Gabby had asked me to get to know her closest relative, and damn me but I would do just that.

If he’d let me.

“So,” I said, “can I er… get you a cuppa? A fizzy drink? Something?” I started backing up toward the kitchen, gesturing over my shoulder with my two thumbs.

Jonathan sat on Gabby’s sofa, arms crossed over his chest, a stony expression on his face. He shook his head, no. My friends, you should note that, during the rest of our conversation, his granite-laid visage did not change. Not once. 

Do you know how absoutely unnerving that is? Well, it is.

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Er, anything?”

Once again, “no.”

I clapped my hands together and, feigning an air of casualness, sauntered back into the living room. “Okay,” I said, splaying my hands in the air and trying desperately to keep the shakes out of my voice. “I think, er, we got off on the wrong foot, so to speak, you know, you and I. I mean, I know I looked like a complete tit just then, but you know I heard what I heard and I thought… you know.”

I gestured back and forth, waving my hands about, bobbing my head, and rolling my eyes like an arse, “I mean, I thought Gabby… I thought. You were. You know, I thought. Oh. Crap.” I crossed over to Gabby’s chair and plopped myself down upon it, sinking deep into it. “Yeah, but that’s… you know, impossible. And all that.”

Jon remained silent for a beat. Then another, and then another.

"Gabby's very important to me," he said, finally, quietly... dangerously.

"I realise that," I responded, "and to me."

"She's been hurt badly, you know." 

"I know."

"I don't mean physically." 

"I'm well aware of that, too." I shifted in my seat. "She's told me everything."

"She's got some seriously manky scars," he said, his eyes widening only slightly.

I blinked, looked away momentarily in disbelief, and I then looked back up at Jon, my brow furrowed, my nose curled in slight shock and disgust with this man. "They are not manky." I pointed a finger at him. "How bloody dare you...."

He held up a hand, cutting me off. "Do you think them disgusting? Are you grossed out by them?"

"Jesus Christ, of course not! I find them heroic." 

He paused, lowering his hand and lacing his fingers back together. "You end any relationships recently?"

I scrubbed at the stubble on my face, trying to figure out where he was going with this. "Yes...," I said, tentatively, "about three months ago." 

"How'd it end, this relationship? Did you break up with her?"

I sighed and raked my fingers through my hair. "If you must know, she dumped me; rather unceremoniously, in fact, by text message."

“Y'love her?” He asked, quickly. 

“What?” I asked, stilling, squinting at him. 

Jon spoke very slowly, very deliberately. “I said,” he blinked once, not unlike a raptor sizing up its prey, “do you love her?” 

“Who, Gabby?”

“No, you arse!” Jon rolled his eyes. “Jenny fucking Agutter! Of course, I mean Gabby!”

“Yes.” I replied, very matter of factly. “Yes. I do love Gabby. More than I can say.”

Jon nodded, squinting, still staring intently at me. “Have you ever hit a woman?”

This was now bordering upon the ridiculous. I balled my hands into fists and tucked them down tightly between my thighs and the sides of the chair. “What the hell kind of question is….”

“Just answer it!” He nearly shouted.

“No, I have never hit a woman!” I yelled in equal measure, pounding my fist once upon the chair arm. “Of bloody course not!”

He calmed. "You went to Eton, right? You're upper class," he said.

"I don't take stock in such things. Doesn't matter." I shrugged. 

He nodded yet again. “You’re an actor, right?” Before I could answer, he continued, his voice mellow, soft, yet dripping with venom. “You some kind of randy boy? You like to drink a lot? Fuck around? New woman in your bed every night kinda guy are you?”

I felt my jaw work, as my mind came to a stark realization. Oh, yes my friends, but this arsehole was testing me. He was. He was poking, prodding, pushing me, looking for that one thing, something, I don't know what. But there I was, there I sat, and I was being flayed open wide with a dull, rusty scalpel and blunt forceps upon the cold steel of the examination table. 

I didn't like it one bit. 

Yet. I needed to stay calm. I needed to keep my head and my wits about me with this one. Needed to keep little brain (who wanted nothing more than to jump across the table and throttle the fuckwit senseless) well at bay.

“I am an actor, yes. I am no randy boy, I am no drunk, and no, sir. I do not, as you so aptly put, fuck around.” With that, I matched his pose, sitting forward in the chair, elbows upon my knees, hands folded between my wide open legs. “I am and will be completely devoted to Gabby, and only to Gabby.”

He let his significant body weight fall against the couch back, apparently satisfied with my answer.

For the moment, at least.

Until he asked me one last question. “So, Tommy,” he said, with a throwaway gesture and a cockeyed grin. I winced outwardly at the overly familiar appellation.

I hated it when people called me Tommy. One more thing and the shit was about to be lost. 

He ignored my quite visceral reaction, and continued. “Did you fuck her yet? Was it good for you?”

Last. Goddamn. Straw.

I stood in a strong and swift movement, my fists tight, arms rigid at my sides. I strode over beside the sofa and glared down my nose at him. “All right, Mr. MacKenzie, you're finished now. No more questions. In fact," I seethed, "it's my turn to ask you a question.”

He looked up at me, calmly and gestured, open-handed. “Fair enough.”

I took a deep breath, crossed my arms, bent forward, and looked Jon straight in the eye.

This could have gone one of two ways, and I hoped and prayed that I was doing and saying the right thing.

“Are you always this much of a goddamn tosser, or are you just opening your trousers up and swinging your cock about for the sake of butting horns? Are you truly this great of an arsehole, or do you think that all of your running about at the mouth like a monstrous sucking gobshite is going to impress me? Because it isn't.”

Jon stood, slowly, from the sofa and took the two steps necessary to close the space between us. I kept my arms crossed, mainly to hide the fact that my hands were shaking like autumn leaves about to fall from a dying tree.

Oh. Shit. I was in for it.

He crossed his own arms, bulging the biceps before me, straining against the seams of his t-shirt. He stared at me, face utterly blank. It took everything I had not to step away, not to step back, to hold my fucking ground like the man I was.

Until the unthinkable happened. I had flinched for it. I had waited for the blow that I was sure was to come.

But instead, Jon...laughed.

Yes my friends he laughed. He threw his blond-haired loaf of a head back and chortled, chuckling, and snorting with bloody mirth. Arsehole.

I just watched him, stunned, until he said, “Know what, mate? I like you. You’re okay.” With that he reached out, shook my hand with a firm grip, smiled broadly and said, “I’ll take that cuppa now if you’re still making one.”

And by then I thought I’d need something a hell of a lot stronger than a mere cuppa.

Jesus Christ in a green kelp protein smoothie with a side shot of anabolic steroids.

***

And so my friends, as it was, Gabby returned home from teaching, her hair a matted mess and her gi soaking wet with perspiration, to find her favourite cousin and her boyfriend laughing, falling upon each other like a couple of hysterical hyenas; two empty tumblers set upon her table alongside a half bottle of Glenmorangie well consumed.

Yes, Jon and I drank to our new found friendship. In the middle of the morning. 

Sometimes propriety had to be damned, and since I was leaving for Ireland shortly, we figured then was as a good time as ever.

She dropped her bag, and stared, open mouthed. "Oh my god, you're both pissed!" She laughed, and strode over to us. She took my face in her hand, and I looked up at her, blearily. "Jesus, Tom. I asked you to be nice to him, not to go and get him blotto."

"We, Gabby? What? Jon and I? We. We. Are. Not...pished. I mean, not pisked. Not piskey... Not. Pissed." I responded, pushing myself lumberously off the sofa. "I've only had two." I held up three fingers and grinned like a loon.

"Right, then," she said, determined. She pointed at Jon. "You. Muscle man. Sit your arse up. James'll be here in an hour to collect you, and you'd better have sobered up by then, so, coffee and cake. Both of you. Now." She marched into the kitchen, and I heard the clink of crockery being pulled from the cabinets.

Gabby came back into the living room a few minutes later, having made hot, strong, black coffee, and having changed into a Marillion Brave t-shirt and a tight pair of denim shorts. A very, very tight pair of denim shorts. Wow. 

I took a long draw from the thick, dark, coffee, and shoved a whole chocolate Tunnock's tea cake into my mouth. Both of those nearly instantly helped me feel my brain come back to me again. Little brain thought it was too bad that I had to kill that buzz. So little brain came up with another way to make my head spin. Gabby. 

I fell back onto the sofa, trying not to think of Gabby's arse in those shorts. I cradled my cup in my two hands between my legs, willing myself not to harden up in front of Jonathan. 

Distraction needed. Yes! A thought occurred. I scrunched up my face and turned, still a little wobbly-headed, toward Jonathan. "Hey," I said. "Who the fuck's James?"

"My partner." Jon said, taking a swig of his own coffee and licking his lips.

I blinked and raised an eyebrow. "Your like, firefighting partner? I didn't know firefighters had partners. I thought only paramedics had partners, like on Casualty." 

"No, man." He replied. He punched me solidly in the shoulder, making me teeter, "my life partner."

"Cool," I replied, waiting for the sloshing within my cup to stop before I took another large sip of coffee. "Can't wait to meet 'im."

***

Needless to say, by the time James (very nice bloke, by the way; policeman by trade, dark, handsome, built just as brick-shit-house as Jonathan, but shorter, stockier, and probably stronger) came to collect Jonathan, Gabby was, justafiably so, brassed at me.

I deserved it. 

But then, I had just lived through the hell of interrogation at the hands of an inquisitor with the skill and finesse to match the Spaniards. And I won. There was cause for celebration.

Thankfully, her ire didn't last long.

"I can't believe you did that, Tom." She shook her head and grinned blithely at me, her eyes sparkling.

"What?" I shrugged, my palms facing heavenward, "I didn't force the stuff down his throat."

She stood from the bed, stepped over to me, and kissed me, her lips brushing lightly against mine. "You're absolutely lovely, you know that?"

I pulled back and winked. "Yeah, I know."

She slapped me one across the chest, laughing. "Arsehole."

I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. "Bint."

"Was he horrible to you?" She asked, leaning her cheek against my shirt.

"Nah. He was just feeling me out, testing me."

She looked up at me. "Looks like you passed."

"I suppose I did."

We stayed like that, quiet, just holding each other, for what seemed (to my still slightly buzzed mind) a long time, until she said, "I'm glad."

"Me too."

"You know what?" She pulled away from me, grasped my hands, and pulled me toward the bed.

"What?" I said, slowly, languidly, a whisper. "What do I know?" 

She sat down upon the edge of the bed, reached up and grasped me behind the neck. She tilted her head, making my groin ache with the wanting of her, and guided me down to her lips. She whispered there, her breath mingling with my own, "I do love you."

I felt suddenly dizzy, but in a good way. My cheeks burned with the grinning I did. I smiled so broad and so large and so wide that it hurt. A good hurt. A most excellent hurt. "And I love you," I replied. 

She brought me the rest of the way down for a long, lingering kiss. She moaned with the taste of the Scottish whisky and coffee still upon my tongue; and I let her drink it in, imagining her becoming as drunk on me as I had been on the spirits if she'd wanted to. She curled her fingers into my hair, pushing herself further into me, and I pushed back with my entire body, my entire being, my very soul; desiring, wishing it were physically possible just to melt into and merge with her and to stay there. 

I touched her hip where her tight little jean shorts met the flesh of her back, and I let my fingers dance along the scars there. She gasped and pushed back against my touch. I smiled into her mouth, licking playfully at her upper teeth. "These shorts..." I said, "these... these are nice."

She fluttered her eyelids, and I felt the wind of them against my cheekbones. "I thought you'd like them."

"I'd like them better if they were off."

***


	9. Tweet Twenty

Tweets all/no replies

16 June

Gabby MacKenzie, CFI @gabbymaccfi. Just sitting about and listening to "Better Be Home Soon" by Crowded House. #missingyou

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston @gabbymaccfi. An apt, wondrous, and perfect song. One of my all-time favourites. 

 

I felt as if I hadn't slept in a week. 

Weather was a right bastard -- cold, rainy; very Irish. The flat I shared with two of my co-workers was ancient, rickety and drafty, letting in a constant stream of bone-numbing cold and damp. The peat fire'd not stay lit, the fucker. The incessant rain beat and pounded upon the single-paned windows during the night like a swarm of moths upon a lightbulb. 

I woke with piercing headaches every morning, my chest tight, my eyes reddened, and my body aching. It was torture. It was agony. I was in hell. 

I longed for home. 

I longed for Gabby. 

Oh, how I longed for Gabby.

I'd dreamt of her almost every night, only after quietly crying myself to sleep with the want of her. Oh, how I wished to hold her, to kiss her; to have her solid heat beside me in my bed, naked and soft beneath the duvet covers. I missed the scent of her, that citrus shampoo whose delicious fragrance would billow up in the shower steam and permeate every nook and cranny of my flat for hours. I missed her thick, flowing, curled just so about her shoulders blonde hair and her huge, sparkling hazel-brown eyes. 

Oh, woe, oh, woe! 

Oh, no, no, no! 

Jesus, people. Wake the fuck up.

What sort of pathetic, moping, sad sack do you think I am?

Well, first of all, let me go off topic for a mo. In spite of what you may think of her from my tale on the appearance front, Gabby's hair rarely flowed, and it wasn't truly blonde. It was more of a brownish blondish mixture that sometimes looked a dark -- not sure what. Beyond that, her hair mainly stayed in its ponytail. 

It was like, her hair had grown that way, into the ponytail, and the individual strands of hair just loved so much to be close to one another that they all decided to live together in a great red elastic for the rest of their lives. But that was Gabby. Not perfect, not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but I've never been one attracted to the physical. 

Except maybe her arse; but that was a different story.

Second, and back on track now, I was not at all miserable. On the contrary. 

Yes, I'd shared a very spacious room with two of the other actors on set, namely, Dom and Ian. But this place was not rickety, was not damp, and certainly was not ancient and drafty. It was brand new and rather luxurious; a B&B built around a burgeoning tourist business near the newly renovated Earlkennie Castle; which was where we were filming a series of both indoor and outdoor scenes before the castle opened to the public. 

And the weather was uncharacteristically sunny for this part of Ireland in the early summer. So sorry, no rain. No gloom. No doom. No sad Tom upon whom to take pity. 

And yes of course, I missed Gabby, but life went on. I had business to attend to. I was in Ireland for a fortnight, then Scotland for two days, for fuck's sake. I wasn't lost in Timbuktu or trekking out alone in the wilds of Alaska or like, New Zealand, or lost in Antarctica for years and years. 

I'd see her in a week, and I was fine with that. 

Pining away is a waste of time, and neither Gabby nor I had the luxury of it. Phones worked just fine for communication, as did Skype, FaceTime, Twitter (on the sly, of course) and email. 

And yes, I admit that I did take suggestive inspiration from one or two fan fictions about me that Ben had pointed out before I'd left; and I will further admit that we used both Skype and FaceTime in some very creative ways, Gabby and I did. Very creative. Oh, yes. 

Wonderful inventions, those things.

So, my friends, I woke in the mornings feeling right as rain. I took my exercise as was my wont, running amongst verdant hills and little burbling streams and yellow flowers almost every day. I enjoyed fantastic brekkies made by our lovely hostess, Moira, with fresh, rich coffee and warm, buttered pastries. 

I spent my days in company with my fantastic co-workers, evenings with new friends, and I essentially got down to my beloved character's dirty work of torturing the shit out of the other characters. (And holy crap the makeup job on Dom's nail-impaled-to-the-table right hand was amazing. I nearly puked when I saw it. But then, I remembered that my character did that to him -- and much worse -- so I had to choke it down and carry on.) 

Now, my friends, all that being said, I am neither implying nor should you infer that I didn't think about Gabby at all, that I didn't feel her absence now and then. Because, believe me, I did. 

Especially when I'd thought back to that Sunday before I left. All the Skype and FaceTime in the world couldn't have substituted for that, let me tell you. 

Let me also simply say that Gabby and I spent a great deal of time in my bed, naked, entwined together, both soft and firm (heh, yeah) beneath the duvet; extremely hot (and not only that measurable upon the celsius scale) and very steamy and a bit sweaty and quite damp in certain places and from other sources. 

Not to mention very, very dirty. Deliciously so.

Kaboom.

So when a bloke tells you that he and his beloved only emerged from the bed a few times in a twenty-four hour period to nibble at some victuals, wash up now and then, and to use the toilet, believe him; because it's likely true and can, quite easily, be done.

***

And as life goes, things were going on in London in my absence; things that I could only learn about via phone calls or other discussions with loved ones back home. That Saturday evening, after I finished my shooting, I had two phone conversations. One was quite welcomed, the other also very welcomed but a bit worrisome.

The first was from Ben. I'd just sat down to a dinner of some sort of meat and veg stew and some sort of chewy bread in Moira's kitchen when the Sherlock theme music rang out from my iPhone. 

I slid the slider beneath Ben's silly, mugging face, swallowed the mouthful of stew, cleared my throat and said, "Oh, aye, and thank ye fer callin' McCooley Irrrrrrrrish Cheeses, wher' go-at's be ar speci-ahl-itee, how ma' I be helpin' ye, then?" 

There was an explosive laugh on the other end of the line, and then Ben said, "Go bugger yourself you bastard." He laughed again. "Nice try, Hiddlesarse. Your Irish accent's terrible."

"Damn," I replied. "I thought the immersion'd do me good." I set down my spoon and leaned back in the chair, eliciting a very satisfying creak, as well as a dirty look from Moira. I set the chair back down and mouthed, "sorry." I set my elbow on the table, and leaned into the phone. "Been a while. How are things, mate?"

"Oh, brilliant," Ben said, cheerfullly. "Three dates with Tina now and we're going on our fourth tonight."

My eyebrows rose and I lifted my head from the table. "Fourth date, eh? Is that like, some sort of record for you?"

"Piss off," he chortled. "How are things in Ireland?"

"Busy," I replied, running my hands through my hair. "Character's a right bastard and I honestly think he's more evil than Loki."

"Oh," Ben said, knowingly, "so, you're enjoying it then?"

I wobbled my head back and forth and shrugged. "Yeah, you know. Torture, raping the heroine, murder, getting off whilst watching a flogging, buggering the hero senseless, it's all in a day's work." I laughed. 

Then Ben laughed.

Then I laughed again. "Anything else new?"

"Nah," Ben replied. 

And just then my other line rang over, and Gabby's face appeared on my iPhone screen. "Listen, Ben, I..."

"Got another call?"

"Yeah. It's Gabby."

"Fine, choose your silly little girlfriend over your best mate. Fine," Ben joked, "see if I care. Go on. I don't care."

"Arsehole," I joked back, and then, "Goodbye, Benedict," I said. I mashed the screen button to pick up Gabby's call.

"Hello, sexy," I said, smiling. "What's new on your side of the Irish Sea today?"

"I've got some interesting news, Tom," she said, calmly. 

"No 'hello sexy' for me?" I pouted.

"Hello, to you, you sexy monstrous bulging beast of a man," she chuckled. "Now can I tell you my news?"

My mouth was faster than my brain, and I said the first thing that came into my mind. "Jesus, you're not pregnant, are you?"

"What?" She coughed, said, "hold on, oh my God, wait!" and continued coughing. When she came back to the line she was laughing. "No, love. Not pregnant. I'd not tell you that by phone anyway."

I sighed with some relief. "Okay, not pregnant. Then what?"

"Well, I wanted to let you know that I'll be staying in that rental flat Jonathan and James are in for a day or two."

"Why, what happened? Something wrong with our building?"

"Yes and no," she said. "There was a fire in the building next to us and the police have made the neighbours on both sides vacate until they clear it for safety."

"Jesus!" I stood from the table, nodded a quick thanks to Moira, and headed into the B&B's sitting room. I sat down in an overlarge wing chair in front of the unlit fireplace. "Which building?"

"The one to the left of us, the one with the post hitch out front."

"Jim Buckley's place?"

"Yeah, that's the one," she replied. "Jim wasn't home, though, so he's not hurt, and neither is anyone else, thank God."

"No way. How'd that happen anyway?" I asked, rubbing my hand over my chin and around the back of my neck.

"I suppose it's up to me to find out," Gabby said, calmly, "Aviva Insurance hired me to do the O&C on it."

"O and what?" I blinked. Stupid scientific person type terminology. 

"Origin and cause," she explained, "Vulcan's been hired to do the origin and cause investigation for Jim's insurance company."

"You're joking." I said. 

"Not joking. I spent almost the entire morning in there today. It was a ruddy disaster."

I wasn't sure if I should be asking my next question, but I did. What the hell right?

"So, what did you think?"

Gabby remained quiet for some time. I could hear her breathing, and with the weight of her breath, it was obvious that she was thinking, hard. "I can't say much, Tom, you know I can't, but between you, me, and the wall, I don't like it one bit. It's...," she paused, "odd. I have more work to do."

And that's all she had to say. 

My mind clicked. "You know, love. Ben said something interesting to me last week."

"What's that?"

"Ben said that Jim pulled his money from Curious Incident about two weeks ago with very little explanation." 

Yes, I know. I purposefully left out the part about him saying he had been humiliated by a woman.

Silence on the line. Breathing.

"Gabby?" I said, "did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you," she said, then silence again. "Listen, Tom, I love you but I need to ring off."

"Why, was that important? What I told you about Jim?"

"It could be, I can't say for certain," she replied. "Listen, love, I really do need to go. I have to go back to the scene now. We're opening it up for another insurer and I need to make sure nothing gets moved around or tampered with. It's my scene for now and I need to keep it sound. The fire brigade and the cops did enough damage before I could get in."

"Okay," I said. "Listen, love, will you call me later when you can? I'm worried."

"No need to worry, Tom. I'll defo call or Skype you when I'm done, be a couple of hours. But really, I'm fine, everyone's fine, and hey," she said.

"What?"

"I love you, arsehole."

"Love you too, horseface."

And she rang off.

I sat there, in that damask brocade wing chair, staring at the empty fireplace, working my knuckles across my chin and my bottom lip, thinking, wondering.

And yes, worrying. Lots and lots of worrying.

At least she was with Jonathan and James. She wasn't on her own. Ben was there. She'd be safe.

It was going to be a long, long week.


	10. Tweet Twenty One

21 June

Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Song(s) of the Day. "Six Months In A Leaky Boat" by Split Enz. Tied with "I Would Walk 500 Miles" by the Proclaimers. Can't decide today. #bluidyscottishweather

 

Now, my friends, I realise I was a bit of a tease in the last bit of this tale, and I'm terribly, terribly sorry for that. Terribly sorry.

I apologise profusely for making you believe that I had been distraught, tearful, and miserable whilst in Ireland. I feel absolutely horrid for leading you to think that I had been brooding, yearning for Gabby, and that the weather reflected my purportedly dour mood; when, in fact, the weather was quite lovely and I was happy and fulfilled with my work upon the Emerald Isle.

Scotland was another story. 

This part, my friends, is no tease.

During the first day or so of my stay, I had felt nearly, but not quite, as peevish and petulant as my character, Jack Randall -- and the weather, too, was an equally irascible son of a bitch. I tried with everything I could not to let my ire show round my colleagues and employers. 

If little brain had his way I would have been throwing things, screaming out a tantrum, and pounding upon the floor with my fists and feet.

As for the weather, there was this incessant, large-dropped thrumming rain, a screeching wind, and an as broken glass cold in the mornings. I usually loved Scotland. I'd taken numerous holidays there, hiked in the Highlands, once even owned a second home there, but at this time and in the place we were, I despised it. 

I knew Scotland would generally be inhospitable the very moment the plane touched Scottish soil. Here were the reasons why:

a) The Glasgow unit producer met us at the airport, and advised us first thing that we would not, in fact, be staying in the luxurious, award-winning Fernpoint Hotel near our location. Instead, we would be staying in a series of small holiday to let Lochside cottages he'd been able secure last minute;

b) The reason for us not staying at the Fernpoint was that because said Fernpoint Hotel suffered a terrible demise by way of fire the day before our arrival;

c) The unit producer also told us that the ground near the stone circle where we were to be riding horses was too wet and too soft to ride upon, thereby;

d) We would have to wait at least a day after the weather passed until we could film the stone circle and river side scenes; and 

e) The rain was not expected to stop for another three days.

So instead of two days in Scotland for me, it was to be five, maybe six, possibly more. (And I suppose the silver lining for me was that once my scenes were completed there, I was finished in that location. The rest of the cast were to stay even longer.)

Days upon days in a small, drafty cottage, with at least three of those days to be of little or nothing to do work-wise until the rain stopped. Bugger to that. And with the rain it was not as if we could have done a whole hell of a lot of sightseeing. Maybe a visit to Inveraray Jail or Inveraray Castle, or even a jaunt to Glencoe, but other than that, and perhaps the pub -- zilch.

The producer had considered sending my unit home, but there were other scenes -- some that required the rain, and some that were to be filmed indoors, mainly by Ruth and Dom, at a small croft home near Glencoe.

So there we were, and there I was to stay. 

I phoned Gabby that first evening after settling into my cottage. I whined to her about the loss of the comforts of the hotel and the fire (of which she took a keen interest, of course), and complained about the cottage and the rain and all the bullshit. 

"You sound awfully churlish, Tom," Gabby said, "don't take this wrong, and you know I adore you, but you are acting the diva a bit. You should probably quit that straight away and go along with the punches. You're an actor. You do these things. I know you're upset, but this is really nothing, you know. This just isn't like you."

I sighed. "I know, love. Trust me, I'm not letting any of it show or complaining to anyone else. I'd never do that," I ran a hand through my hair and pulled a little at the back. "I just... I just need to vent, is all. I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself, I s'pose." I scratched at the slight stubble on my cheek. "Can't work right now and the bloody rain is getting to me. I am allowed to be less than sunny now and again, aren't I?"

"You've been in worse situations," she reminded me, "you've been farther away from home for longer than this, I mean it's only two days. That's nothing compared to like, six months in Arizona or three in Iceland."

"It never rained this much in Arizona and Iceland was beautiful," I pouted, flicking at some dirt under one of my fingernails. "And besides, if the weather keeps up, it'll be five or six days up here now, not two. The rest of my filiming'll be in and around London and at Ealing when we get back."

"Six days, huh?" She said quietly, making a "tsk" noise at the end. "That absolutely sucks."

"That it does," I sighed, pouting. "At least I've internet connection here. It'll be something to do. I did get a tweet off, already, though. Maybe now I'll read Perez Hilton for once, learn all the fun and nasty things I'm supposedly doing." I lifted and bounced my suitcase upon the bed, and unzipped the front pocket. I retrieved my dopp kit, kicked off my wet shoes, and squished, wet-stocking-footed into the small bathroom. "Damn, Gabby. I thought I'd be home by Wednesday morning the latest."

"Shit," she replied, sympathetically. "That's too bad. I thought I'd have you in my bed by Wednesday noon." 

Now, my friends, hearing the words, "have you in my bed" in Gabby's voice, emphasis on the words, "have you," no matter how muffled by poor mobile reception or otherwise, was enough to make the muscles in my groin clench. 

Which they did. 

"Ugh, Gabby." I swallowed hard and leaned heavily against the vanity, flattening my hand over my pelvic bones. "Please, love, please don't talk like that. Not when I'm in this sort of state. You know it only gets me going."

She laughed a little, and damn me if I didn't feel another rush of blood downwards. "Sorry, Tom," she cooed, in a sing-song voice, "if it's any consolation, the bed's extremely cold without you. It's been so cold at night, when I wake up my nipples are as hard as --" 

"Jesus Christ, woman!" Oh, God, but that did it. I slammed the heel of my palm against the wall near the vanity mirror, shaking the pipes within and sending tiny dust motes floating down off the top of the light fixture. "Please!" I cried, rather more loudly than I intended. Then I breathed out, my voice reduced to a reedy, staccato whisper. "Please Gabby. My day's been complete crap. It's been hard enough." 

She giggled again. "No pun intended, right? Hard. Enough." Yet another laugh.

Fuck! Did she even know how much she was torturing me? Did she? Christ! Little brain was churning away, screaming, telling me that if Gabby had been there she would have been in some serious danger. Little brain would have wanted me to throw her upon the bed, tear off her clothes with my teeth, no less, and ravage her senseless. 

In the state I was in, little brain was slowly winning out. Therefore, it was probably a very good thing that Gabby was not there. 

I took a shaky breath, balled my hand up into a tight fist, and pounded myself upon the thigh once, twice, three times, wincing, bearing teeth with each strike.

And then I exhaled. And then I took breath again and said four words. I said them evenly, calmly, and perhaps a bit dangerously. 

"You. Me. Skype. Now."

***

The rain, blessedly, had slowed significantly by the second, instead of the third day. Therefore, I was able to get into costume, mount up, get into the smarmy head of Black Jack Randall, and film my final Scotland-based scenes by the end of the fourth. I still had at least another four weeks of work to do by the time my character was to die his horrible death, but that work was going to be done either at Ealing Studios or at a field just outside London where we were going to recreate parts of the Battle of Culloden.

I had started to pack for home when there was a knock on my cottage door. 

"Who is it?" I asked. 

"Telegram," came the response, in a female, high-pitched voice.

What the? "There're no such thing as telegrams anymore," I yelled through the door. "Who is it?"

"Singing telegram, then?" Singing telegram.... okay. I'll play. It was probably Ruth and Dom having a bit of fun.

I opened the door, and there was... wow... this gorgeous vision standing before me. I stood there, utterly gobsmacked, taking in the sight of this woman in a yellow slicker, a flannel shirt (my flannel shirt, no less) jeans, and black wellies.

She bounced a little, her hands behind her back and her breasts bobbing. She sang, very Marilyn-Monroe like, "I heard that you were feeling ill..." she put the back of her hand to her head, "...headache, fever, and a chill..." she hugged her arms about her and rocked side to side, very cute. "...I've come here to restore your pluck, 'cos I'm the nurse who likes to...." 

"Oh, no, you bloody don't!" I struck out two-handed, grabbed her by the upper arms, and pulled her hastily inside my cottage. I kicked the door shut behind her, slamming it, shaking the rickety rafters and sending streams of dust sailing down upon us. 

I cupped the back of her head and kissed her, hard, making humming noises against her lips, which she echoed. I pressed my other hand into the small of her back. I moved the first hand down and gripped one side of her ample buttocks. She reached up and entwined her fingers into my hair, pulling my head closer to hers. 

She caressed me, over my shoulder, down my arm, to land with a finger hooked inside the waistband of my jeans. She pulled, downwards. Steeling against that, I pushed her forward, into the back of the door, forcing the rest of her body against mine, and I may have crushed her hand between us. I couldn't help myself. "Oh, Jesus, Gabby! You're here!" I thrust my pelvis out to meet hers, desiring, eager, wanting, craving contact. 

Coming back to myself, I broke the kiss and just grinned at her, grinned like a complete barmy madman, catching my breath, stroking her with my fingertips, my eyes roving over every inch of her face. 

She smiled back, winked, and sang again, panting slightly, "I've come here... to restore your... pluck, 'cos I'm the nurse who likes to...." Still breathing heavily, she lowered her eyes and looked back up at me through her eyelashes. She tilted her head, damn her, and finished the song in a seductive whisper, grasping at the folds of my shirt, her teeth against her bottom lip, "...fuck!" 

She wiggled her fingers at me a little and said. "Hi, Tom."

I threw my head back, laughing, joyous. Gabby joined in, in solid counterpoint to my own mirth. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" I kissed her again, briefly, and smoothed a strand of her hair back. I fisted my hand gently around her ponytail, twisting my fingers in through it. "I'm leaving for home tomorrow. You didn't have to come all the way up here!"

"Yeah, I did, actually," she replied, kissing my cheek. "That hotel fire? QBE called me in to investigate it."

I blinked. "Seriously? All the way up here?"

"Yeah, apparently everyone else was taken. It's a big fire with a lot of cogs in the wheel and a lot of companies involved, and there aren't many of us CFI's to go 'round."

"What about Jim's house? Can we move back in to our flats yet?"

"Yeah," she said. I led her to the bed and we sat down together, her hands in my lap, our shoulders touching. "We can. I finished the report on that a few days ago and turned it in. Police have made the call, too, and they're following up on it. My job is essentially done for now on that one until they start any sort of legal process."

I kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her thigh just above her prosthesis. "So, can you tell me what it was?"

"What what was?" 

"How it happened? What caused the fire?"

She thought for a long moment, leaning heavier against me. She tilted her head up, inhaled once and planted a lingering kiss behind my ear. "You smell good, Tom. I missed that." 

I peered down at her over my nose at her, imperiously. "You're trying to distract me."

"Yes I am," she winked.

"Not gonna work," I chided. "Come on, you can tell me now, can't you? It's all of record, right? Out with it. How'd the fire start?"

She sighed. "Okay. I found a very distinct 'v' pattern on the wall in the sitting room near an antique chair. That told me the fire started at floor level, right there in that area or near there. So, we got the area swept of debris, moved everything around, and found, underneath, that the carpet and floorboards were burned away in a really specific pattern."

I blinked. "What kind of pattern?"

"It's called a pour pattern, Tom. It's like a pattern that fire makes when it burns hotter and longer in one spot because it's following the path of some sort of fuel that was poured there."

Holy shit. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

"So, Tina took samples of the carpet, and the floor boards, and even what was left of the chair, and those tests came back the same day, all positive for a combination of petrol and paraffin. Plus," she added, "there was nothing else in the area that could have started the fire. No electricals, no appliances, no cigarettes, no lamps, nothing."

"So, the fire was, what? Set on purpose?" I pulled back from her a little bit, my eyes widening and my brow furrowing. 

"Yeah," she replied. "It was an intentionally set fire by use of an accelerant." She said, instructively. "Tom, it was arson."

"Fucking hell," I exclaimed. "You're joking, right?" 

"Not joking. It's not even funny."

I thought for a moment, letting it all sink in, then I asked, "So, who did it?"

Gabby shrugged. "That's not for me to figure. That's for the insurers and the police to suss out." She paused. "But I will say this, both my contact at Aviva and DCI Jorgenson were very interested in the Curious Incident pull out. They're going to follow up on that whole thing, see if there was any financial motive there."

"Motive for whom?"

She rolled her eyes a little and bobbed her head. "Well, I guess motive for Jim." She shrugged. "I don't know if they have anyone else they're looking at."

We both sat upon the bed, quiet, entwined together for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the cottage, the birds outside, and of our own breathing. 

"I'm glad you're here." I spoke, finally. "How long do you have to work?"

"Only a day or two. The inspection's tomorrow. It's not even my scene this time. My client's a minor player, just the manufacturer of the kitchen fire suppression system, so there's not much for me to do, especially if the fire didn't start in the kitchen!"

"Wouldn't that be great?" I asked, poking her in the side.

"That would be brilliant. Easiest. Job. Ever." She chuckled once, low, fading. "Would you mind staying here another day or two?"

"With you? Not a whit." I grinned, a thought forming. "On one condition."

"Oh, shit, what condition?" She sighed and cocked a lopsided smile.

"That I get to come with you tomorrow. See what you do."

She pushed her bottom lip up, tilted her head (damn her!) and let her eyes roll upwards, in mock thought. "Sure, but you have to stay out of the way."

I bounced once on the bed and clapped. "Goody!"

"One more thing," she added, pointing her index finger upwards. "You have to wear a hard hat."

"Ooh," I purred. "I look good in hard hats, baby."

She chuckled, her eyebrows waggling, "I'll bet you do. A hard hat, a tool belt, and nothing else."

***

We lapsed into silence, our laughter dying down gradually and fading out, carried upon the air in a graceful, beautiful demise; a transition from the earthly sounds of joy and mirth to the heavenly presence of a steady, connected, peaceful nothingness. 

Which itself morphed into a fiery abundance of amorous, heated tension.

I stared at her face, studying it, re-learning it. After all, I'd been gone away for just about as long as I'd known her. I touched her there, letting my fingernails slide across the plains of her cheeks and down the slope of her just-too-long nose, to the crest of her lips. I touched that mouth, ever so lightly, and let the contact linger.

She pursed her lips and kissed the pad of my finger. She grasped the back of my hand, placing her index finger behind mine, and pushed. She pushed my finger once more into the breach of her lips, and I let myself pillage her teeth, palate, and tongue therein before she drew me in further, applied suction, and pulled back. Her eyes flickered as she inhaled, and with her exhalation, she focused upon me, surrendering to her pleasure.

I set my other hand upon her breast, applying gentle pressure. "Oh, Fuck, Gabby."

She drew two of my fingers into her mouth and again repeated the process. She let her tongue fall forward, licking and kissing the pads of my fingers, and said, "Yes, please."

In a swift movement, I pulled her to me and then pushed her by her shoulders down upon the bed. The old metal frame creaked under the strain, and the sound drove me on. That sound commingled with Gabby's nearly feral moaning beneath me and I knew I'd not last. My jeans already felt two sizes too small. I was suddenly desperate to be rid of them. 

I stood and pawed at my flies, desperately rendering the buttons asunder. Gabby sat up on her elbows and nearly yanked my blue and red checked flannel shirt from her body, leaving her in a bright crimson brassiere. 

Holy shit. Christ, but I wanted that.

She stared intently at me, in her turn, eager for me as I worked. 

When I finally shed myself of the offending denim, I threw myself bodily at her. She and I moved frantically, both of us urgently trying to touch, kiss, lick, caress, press, squeeze, to learn again every part of each other's bodies. I reached down, and with a practiced click, I freed her from her prosthetic. I pulled it off, reached over her, and set it carefully on the floor beside me. She pushed the silicone sleeve off and chucked it across the room. It hit the cooker, the metal pin pinging musically off the enameled iron.

She wiggled her hand between our bodies and grasped me. I sucked in air and shuddered with the contact and the delicious pressure around me. I gasped, struggling for breath, and moaning. "Gabby," I cried, "please." I set my hand between her legs and pushed fingers into her, feeling her own desire. She was as keen as I was, and that made it all the worse for me. "I'm so sorry, love. I can't wait. I want to, I want to, oh, God believe, me, but I can't wait. I won't... last."

"Tom, oh, God, I know," she said, "please, please we can play later. I just want you, and I want... you now."

She grasped my arse with both hands and pulled me toward her. I guided myself to the right spot and pushed myself home. I reared up on my hands, shoulders tight, elbows locked, rigid fingers bent at the first knuckle against the cotton sheets, and I roared, throwing my head back with the pure, ecstatic, and wondrous sensation of it.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ dancing upon goddamn Highland swords whilst wearing a kilt, a sporran, ghille brogues and gulping down a fucking dram of whisky.

***


	11. Tweet Twenty Two

Tweets all/no replies

26 June

Electric Scotland Argyll @scotlandtoursargyll. We mourn the loss of the Fernpoint Hotel and wish the owners the best in its rebuilding. All bookings will transfer to the George or Argyll. #scotland #tourism #travel

 

I awoke to the sound of Loch Fyne's gentle waves lapping upon the Argyll shore, and the staccato song of some lonely blue tit calling for its mate. An odd yet pleasurable feeling of weight lay across my legs and thighs, and I felt light, feathery touches around my hips and pelvis. 

I inhaled a long, cleansing breath, letting my jaw drop open and my eyes squeeze harder shut. I pressed my shoulders and torso back into and against the mattress, stretching my body, letting wakefulness follow me along the downward slope of my immense yawn.

But that yawn caught, harsh and quickly in my throat. My eyes flew open in shock and surprise, and my entire body tensed with the sudden, overarching and overpowering sensations that I felt in my centre. 

I inhaled through my mouth, breath catching, voice shaking as I let a keening moan escape. My hands, of their own volition, and desperate for contact with anything, grasped wildly at the duvet, filling my palms and curled fingers with soft, downy fabric. 

I looked down along my body and found a woman-sized lump beneath the duvet, situated upon and between my legs. 

Gabby. 

I shuddered and moaned again, wiggled and settled my hips a little, itched my palms against the bed coverings, and let the very heavy weight of my head crash back against the pillow. 

"Gabby, what're... what... do... you do....oh, shit!" My powers of speech were ripped from me altogether, rendering me capable only of growling deep in my chest as another wave of moist, warm pressure surrounded me. 

I felt a series of delicious, languid waves move up and down, swirling about that part of my body which now garnered my entire attention. It was if I no longer had possession of the rest of me. Somehow my head and arms and legs and torso and feet became ethereal, unreal, non-existent to my brain; as all focus lit upon that bit of flesh and muscle and bone and vessels and sinew between my legs. 

I threw the duvet back and was welcomed with the vision of Gabby hovering over my abdomen, her one hand grasping at my hip, her nails digging into my arse, making me twitch there. I knew where the other hand was and I gasped at the thought of it. 

Her hair was out of its ponytail, messy and tangled and feathering, stray strands of it reflecting the purple and orange dawn light, the colors dancing over my legs and abdomen, shaking in time to the rhythm of her ministrations upon me. 

"Oh, my God!" I sat up quickly, propped myself up on one hand, and grabbed a fistful of her hair with the other. I followed its movement, feeling her bob up and down, back and forth upon me, her tongue seeking purchase and providing the most delicious rolls of pressure within. "Jesus, Gabby. Oh, fuck, but that's good." I panted. "Please, don't you bloody stop."

She raised her eyes to me, and she smiled around my flesh. She turned her head, still holding me fast between her lips; and the corner of her grin curled licentiously against the skin. She let go for a second, broadening her smile. I whimpered a little at the loss of her warmth, especially when the cold Scottish morning air hit. 

"Oh, good morning, Tom, I'm just about my brekkies," she said, giving me one of her goddamn beautiful little head tilts. I let out a long, pining groan, desperate for her to continue. She winked, and thankfully she went directly back to her work, her broad tongue licking at her lips before reclaiming me, drawing me back, and imprisoning me deep within them.

Good morning, indeed. 

And when Gabby finished her morning repast, I licked my own lips -- feeling suddenly quite peckish, nearly salivating under an intense craving for a very specific, very unique flavour.

"My turn." 

***

By the time I stepped from the shower, Gabby was fully dressed, her leg fastened on, and her hair once again home in its ponytail; two hairslides on either side securing away any potential follicular escapees. 

I scrubbed at my dripping wet head with the towel. Gabby laughed when I emerged, looking owl-like at her. "You look beautiful; like Paul McGann in Withnail just now with your big blue eyes and hair all sticking up mad out the towel."

I grinned. "As long as Uncle Monty's not here, I'm fine with that." I moved the towel down and finished drying off, Gabby's eyebrows waggling as I swiped water from my man parts. Grinning, I padded back into the shower room and started combing through my mass of curls. "Where are you staying by the way? I know you drove up here 'cos I saw your Audi outside."

"Well, I've a room at the George up the A83, but I wasn't sure if you could keep this cottage now that you're done filming."

"No, 'm supp'sed t' giv' th'key back t'day," I muffled, trying not to spit Tesco toothpaste upon the mirror. And then a thought hit, a rather annoying thought. I spat the minty stuff out, turned and braced my hands against the door frame. "How the hell'd you get a room there? That place and the Argyll were both sold out when we got here, s'why we got stuck in these god-forsaken places."

"I'd imagine the insurer for the building owner took out the whole lot of the service flats from the George, and likely the Argyll, too...probably whilst the fire was still burning. So, by the time you got here, all the rooms were taken up for the investigators and insurance people, solicitors, secretaries, assistants, and CFI's." She shrugged, "Sorry, poor timing."

I grunted. "You smarmy, over-privileged, diva-arsed, spoilt-rotten fire investigators, you. You disgust me with your... your... preferential treatment. Disgusting, I tell you." I pointed my toothbrush at her, and showed her a mock expression of distaste.

"Shut up and get your arse dressed." She came up behind me, snaked her arms between my biceps and my chest, and squeezed me gently upon the pectorals. "Honk, honk." She laughed, kissed me on the shoudler and ruffled my newly combed hair.

"Oi! You wee bizzem! I just fixed that!"

"You'll be in a hard hat, pretty boy. You won't have to worry about your hair for long."

Gabby and I packed up the rest of my things and chucked my luggage into the boot of her car. We stopped by the production trailer, where I left the cottage keys with the unit producer, signed my paperwork, picked up my filming schedule for the following week in London, and said a quick goodbye to Ruth and Dom; who were already in costume to film one of the scenes near the stone circle. 

We motored up the A83 for ten minutes or so when we came upon a large, grand, white hotel with large oak window openings and imposing, black doors. Gabby turned up the long, winding approach and pulled into in the car park off to the side of the building. I took my suitcase from the boot and we walked through the grand, wide open reception area, past a vast library, to Gabby's room on the same floor.

Unlike the raggedy old shack I'd stayed in for the past few nights, Gabby's lodging was absoultely luxurious. Thick, tan carpet, marbled walls and floor and fixtures in the loo, a four poster bed, a coal fire, you name it; and it was all decked out in satins and velvets; blues, greens, and pale yellows in pure comfort and downy softness. 

"Wow, nice bed!" I exclaimed, thowing myself upon the mattress. I let myself bounce once, twice, three times, until I finally settled in. I sighed and turned over, pointing an accusing finger at Gabby. "See, you are all a bunch of fucking divas, I tell you. All of you."

Gabby took my suitcase and set it in the wardrobe. She strode over to the bed, grasped the fabric of my BonIver t-shirt, pulled me up close and kissed me. "Oh, Tom, love, you're naught but a big great baby." She winked, patting me on the cheek. "You're gonna sleep here tonight, so quit your whinging, will ya?"

I winked and popped my finger upon her nose. "Who said anything about sleep?" And with that, I fell back upon the bed, once again, bouncing. "Wheeeee!"

***

We met Gabby's partner, Tina, in the car park at the Fernpoint, or what was left of the Fernpoint. It had once been a grand place, you could see it. Immense, spread over a vast area of land near the shore of the Loch, whitewashed and stucco plastered walls and heavy timbered doors and windows. Not unlike the George where we were staying.

Only now, it was a shell. A burnt out husk. Dark, black, sooty, its skyline broken and battered, shards of wood, glazing, timber and lathe sticking out at haphazard angles to the blue of the sky. 

Tina pulled a tan work jacket from the boot of her car, shook it out, and handed it to me, along with a pair of what Gabby called, coveralls. "These are Brian's, but they'll fit you right." Once I had the coveralls on and hard hat upon my head, both Gabby and Tina stepped back, crossed their arms and gave me the eye.

"I want him to be my assistant." Tina laughed. "He looks like one of those eager beaver kids right out of university."

"Yeah, that's it!" Gabby replied, laughing. "He's our intern."

"Intern!?" I said, indignantly, puffing out my chest. 

Gabby peered at me beneath her eyebrows. "Then you can just stay outside with the car. Tina and I will be out in oh, three or four hours."

"Oh, now, that wouldn't be fair, would it? You've seen my work, now I'd like to see yours."

"You sure?" Tina asked, curling up her lip. "It's going to be utterly minging in there."

"Absolutely," I said, "and I'll even be your ruddy assistant." I wiggled the backs of my fingers at Gabby. "Come on then, hand me the pencil and board." 

In all reality, I was excited. I'd never done anything like this, never been inside a burnt out building before. Well, there was that old abandoned council house my cousin used to live near. We'd venture there, but never went in because we were too afraid. The look of the place made me nervous, but if Gabby and Tina could handle it, so could I.

Gabby, Tina and I (under the name T. William Hiddleston, Gabby said I'd needed to use my real name) signed in at a small table with the head investigator, the one hired by the owner. Gabby knew him, and she knew the American solicitor he worked with. 

"Danny!" Gabby greeted the attorney, shaking his hand. "What are you doing here?"

"Not ever deposing a stubborn thing like you again, thank God," he joked. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that? Two days of you and I was ready to fly home and never come back."

Gabby raised her chin and nodded. "It's only me job, guv," she replied, punching him in the shoulder. "Listen, who are you representing? What're you doing all the way here for a little hotel fire? Shouldn't you be back in New York handling all those Times Square bombing claims?"

"My main client owns this place."

"Your main client?" Gabby asked, her eyebrows raised. "You mean Jim Buckley's company?"

The New Yorker winked and clicked his teeth together. "Get your clearance tags and have your assistant pick up a packet, and you'll find out."

I saw the pile of documents on a table just outside the secured entrance. After we picked up handwritten name badges and affixed them to our work clothes, I retrieved one of the stapled packets. Gabby looked over my shoulder as I flipped through. "Well, as Chris Evans would say, it's sure as shit." I pointed to the first party named upon the list.

"Buckley Properties UK, LTD, owns 50 percent of this place." Gabby said, quietly.

***

Tina went off on her own with the camera to check the electrical layout of the building, leaving Gabby and I in the kitchen area. Unfortunately, the fire's origin, by consensus of the investigators, did occur in the kitchen; but no one could agree whether to pinpoint it in an area near the cooker, or closer to the service area, where there were no heating or cooking elements. 

I had no idea how Gabby did it -- I could barely discern anything for the level of carnage and destruction. 

And believe it or not, I was not recognized at all. Either it was the hard hat and safety specs I wore, or the fact that each and every one of the investigators and solicitors and insurance people were so focused upon the job that they simply did not care.

And yes, Gabby did put me to work. During the few hours were were in there, she dictated bits of information to me from here and there, pointed things out to me, and gave me label numbers to stick on things. Tina provided me with lists of photographs and their numbers. Gabby'd take the clipboard now and then, and I'd watch over her shoulder as she made little drawings and charts and things I couldn't even begin to understand.

In short, I was hopelessly lost, but utterly fascinated.

As she worked in an area, standing on a ladder above a cooking surface, I had the opportunity for a look round. The destruction of the fire amazed me, and saddened me -- thinking of what it did, this bastard fire, to this building, to Gabby's back, to her left leg, and to her life.

It made me shudder.

And yes, Tina was right. The place was utterly disgusting, but it didn't bother me in that way. It wasn't unlike the eye-catching spectacle of a train wreck, or a car prang. Difficult to look at, but I couldn't tear my eyes from it.

The kitchen walls were blackest black, coated in a thick layer of soot and grease and Christ knew whatever else; smelling like death and smoke and sharp chemical and rotten rubbish. The floor was wet, my borrowed workboots sticking, slipping and squelching in the the same vile muck as that which covered the walls.

I wondered, silently, how the hell Gabby was able to make heads or tails of any of it, when she tapped my arm. "We're done for now," she said, picking up her measuring tools and some sort of electrical probe, "we get to come back later this afternoon when it's our turn."

"Our turn for what?" I took a spanner from her and shoved it into my trouser pocket.

"We get to come back and, under Danny's supervision, take out whatever evidence we need. Danny keeps a log of it, you see. I need to take the tanks out of the Tyco system and take some samples."

"I'll bring my clipboard."

***

I pulled Gabby's Audi into the car park at the Fernpoint at two, as she was scheduled. Tina had since left to go back to London, having being given access an hour earlier to take the electrical boxes and other power paraphernalia to dig into. She also, unfortunately, took the work clothes and boots she'd given me earlier.

"I shouldn't be long." Gabby kissed me on the cheek. She lit from the car and opened the boot, donning her work clothes, and then retrieving a small tin and a tool bag. "I'm going to retrieve the Tyco tanks and some samples and I'll be right out."

"MMkay," I replied. I lit from the driver's side and grasped her as she walked away. "Come here, you," I ordered, and pulled her into a full on kiss. "There'll be more when you're finished, a reward for work well done," I grinned, wickedly. 

She turned to go, trailing her fingers along my cheek, and I smacked her playfully upon her bum. "Cheeky," she whispered. 

I sat down upon the car's bonnet, my legs crossed beneath me. I watched Gabby approach the lead investigator and that New York solicitor guy - smarmy git - and she disappeared into the husk of the building.

I let my eyes roam over the crest, tracing the jagged outline of the remainder of the roof and top floor. I saw bits of a four-poster bed sticking out into open air, the back of a porcelain commode, sheets and blankets blowing in the wind, caught against sticks of lathe and wire. 

And then my eye was drawn to the other side, just over the kitchen area. 

There was the sudden loud cacaphony of a large number of birds; blue tits from the looks of them at this distance, crying a warning song and flying, en masse from the burnt out building. 

"What the..." I whispered, following the birds' flight path.

Then there was another sound. This one different. I'd never heard it before. It was as if... as if the building was crying, in the throes of sorrow, moaning out a lament. The groan grew louder, and as I looked up, I saw panes of intact glazing start to wobble, bend, and morph out of shape. 

"Is it supposed to do that?" 

I stood from the car, looking around, running down and back the drive up, fear starting to churn in my stomach and burn my chest. My hands went numb. Other than myself, Gabby, and the others inside, the place was deserted.

"This isn't right," I breathed, pacing like a caged lion. "This is not right. Something's wrong... something's... oh, God...Gabby!" I shouted her name. Jesus Christ. "Gabby!" 

No response. What the fuck was that solicitor's name? "Danny!" I called. "Hey, Danny!"

The building groaned again. Louder this time, and beneath that was a sinister hiss, like a snake emerging from its den, ready to strike. I ran toward the building now, stupid, I know. I stood in the open door, yelling my guts out, panic full on, tears in my eyes, and my brain set on auto-drive. "Gabby!" I called. "Gabby, get the fuck out of there now!"

"Tom!" Oh, Jesus, thank God. "Tom!" I heard her, then I saw her. She, with Danny and the investigator hot on her heels, were running, pell-mell and at full speed, dodging bits of debris, heading straight for the door. "Tom, go! Run! Just go!" 

"But, Gabby!"

"Go! I'm right behind you!"

Needing no further instruction, I turned and ran. I ran and ran and ran and ducked down behind Gabby's car. I looked, expecting to find her, but she was a good distance behind me yet. "Gabby, over here!"

She was hurt. She started hobbling on her prosthetic. Shit shit shit. 

"Tom, take cover!" 

"Gabby, no! Come over here!" I stood up, and started running back to her, to grasp her arm, to help her walk, carry her, fuck all who cared, to pull her to me, to me, where she belonged, where I needed her. 

Where she'd be safe. Safe and not dead or blown up or injured or dead or...

She called out to me again, and she was right there a tick away -- reaching out her arms as if to tackle me. "Tom, for fuck's sake, get down!"

There was a great sucking noise from within the building, and then... and then...

Jesus Christ with a ...


	12. Tweet Twenty Three

Tweets all/no replies

Dan Sialia @dannosialia: Met my baby girl's hero @twhiddleston today. Great guy. Lucky man. I wish him all the best. @twhiddleston #loki #muppets

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @dannosialia Thrilled to have met you too, Danny. Thank you for everything. All will be well. Promise. #newfriends #keepintouch

 

If one were to look up the word, 'misery,' in the Oxford English Dictionary, the definition therein could be written thusly:

When your arse is sat upon a hard, curved plastic chair in the middle of a Greenock ED waiting lounge, pain killers hatefully wearing off, head throbbing, left hand mummified within in elastic bandage, the vessels within pounding against their bounds like trapped beasts, eyes tear-filled, stinging, and blinking against the flickering flourescent lights, and back teeth grinding away at the remainder of the dust and dirt that, a few hours ago, had coated your entire body and raped your nose and mouth against your will.

All that on top of worry to the point of severe nausea over the woman you love.

Yeah, that was me. The penultimate picture of misery.

I'd been released from the ED myself after a brief examination, a cursory x-ray, a jab of some sort of mild opiate (or so I thought), and a wrap by a young Glaswegian nurse who seemed a bit intimidated by and frightened of me. 

I hated that, absolutely hated that sort of reaction to my being "Tom Hiddleston," and that just added to my state of moroseness and irritability. It was times like that when I wanted nothing more than to be the ethereal "just Tom." 

Besides, nurses are supposed to put their patients at ease. Not the other way round.

I sat there in that chair, my head cradled in my right hand, my left crossed over my chest in a sling, when I heard the click-shuffle noise of a person ambulating upon a shiny new set of crutches.

"How's the arm?" Danny, the swarthy American solicitor, (or should I call him attorney, I never knew with American lawyers what they were called), stretched his crutches out and carefully lowered himself into a chair opposite me. 

"Hand," I replied, not looking up, "and it's fine, just a bad sprain. Hurts a right bastard." I inhaled through my nose, and puffed out air, looking away down the hallway where I knew Gabby was.

"I've got a busted up leg," Danny pointed to his air cast. "A nice transverse fracture of the radius. Painful as all shit."

"Uh huh."

"Can I ask you a question?" Danny leaned forward, elbows upon his thighs. 

"Can I stop you from doing so?" I shrugged, still staring down the hallway.

Danny laughed and scratched a hand through his thick, straight black hair. "Probably not."

"Fine. Ask... whatever you want to know." I made a throwaway gesture with my right hand.

"Why are you still here?"

I shot him a look. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you're all patched up, right?"

"So are you." I nodded at his leg. Danny bit his bottom lip and his eyes roved over me, top to bottom. I couldn't tell if he was sizing me up for a fight, or otherwise trying to figure me out. At that point I didn't much care. "What do you want, Danny?" I snapped, near the point of exasperation.

"Why were you there, at the fire scene today?" Before I could answer, Danny raised a hand and stopped me speaking. "I know who you are."

I raised my eyebrows, widened my eyes, pursed my lips, and made an "ooh" noise. "Drat. You've found me out."

Danny bobbed his head up and down and coughed. "Listen, that's not what I meant, man. I'm just wondering what Gabby was doing with an actor there. I mean, it's okay. I know you were helping her. I watched you."

I blinked and raised my right eyebrow. "You... watched me."

"Dude. I recognized you right away! Listen, man, the wife and I are serious Marvel nerds, okay? So, Loki the God of freakin' Mischief and the same dude who made my two-year-old daughter squeal with laughter in that Muppet movie waltzed into my fire scene, right? So, the first thing I did was like, silently geek out, and scream on the inside. Second, I... kinda... wondered why."

I chuckled, once, and smiled, biting my bottom lip. "Noted."

"So, tell me. Are you like, researching for a role or something? Because if you are, then that's just cool and...."

It was my turn to hold up a hand. "Are you cross examining me, counselor?" 

Danny cocked a slight smile. "No, man, I'm asking you open-ended questions, therefore, it's direct examination. Plus, if I was cross examining you, you'd know it."

I gave a slight bow of my head. "Touche'."

"So," Danny continued, "if you don't mind me asking again, why are you here?"

I shrugged, nonchalant. "Pure coincidence." He shot me a confused glance and cocked his own dark eyebrow. I nodded, further explanation was obviously needed. "Gabby's my girlfriend." Danny startled slightly, blinking rapidly, turning his head, and glaring at me from the corner of his eye. The look irritated me. "What?" I barked. 

He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "Nothing," he said, "nothing."

"Er, okay." I continued, feeling a bit guilty for my outburst. "Well, to answer your question, I was up here already, filming, and Gabby surprised me. She's seen enough of my work, and I asked her to show me what she does. That's it."

Danny smacked his lips and pouted. "Yeah. That's too bad. It would... it would have been cool if someone made another film about what we do. Backdraft was good, but yeah." He shrugged one shoulder.

I sighed. "I suppose." I bowed my head and picked a stray thread off the elastic bandage. "I suppose." 

We lapsed into silence for a beat, then another. And another. And another as I retrieved my tea from the cup holder beside me. Another as I took a sip. Another as I'd realized the tea had gone cold. When Danny finally spoke, it was a whisper. "You know that... that she's going to be okay, right, Tom?"

I said nothing, just nodded. I couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. My thoughts and worries drew back to Gabby. I had to set my tea back down. I couldn't drink it. My stomach hurt once again with the anxiety of it. I looked back down the hall, desperate for word of her.

"She has to be okay, she just has to," Danny breathed, his voice quieter, shuddering, his own gaze directed toward the doctor's entrance.

Hearing that, it dawned upon me, clear and bright. I thought back to the collapse. All of my attention had been on the horrific spectacle of the demise of the building, watching, riveted as the front walls shuffled like a deck of cards and cascaded downward and outward. My ears had been filled with naught but the roar of the cracking oak beams and disintegrating stucco, and I could smell nothing but the horrendous stench of crumbling old mustiness and vaporised gypsum. 

I'd focused upon the massive, whitish cloud pushing outward from the centre of the disaster, its growth exponential. It enveloped me, coated me from head to foot. Like an expanding protoplasm from a horror film, it forced its way into my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my ears. 

I'd thought of little but my own panic, the scream ripping my throat apart, trying desperately to push through my clamped-shut lips; my own thoughts swirling and churning uncontrolled -- the fear that I was about to die, that I'd suffocate, that I'd never see my family, or my friends, or Gabby ever again. 

Gabby.

It wasn't until after the cloud passed, after the dust settled, after I'd calmed, realized that I still lived, after I'd spat profuse gobs of grit-laden phlegm and coughed what filth I could from out my lungs, that I looked over and saw Gabby.

And she was unconscious. It was the worst sight I'd ever seen. It sent my brain right back into the spin from which it had just been released. Now, every thought was for Gabby. There was a stripe of dirt-streaked, dark blood painted from the top of her head, down her cheek, mingled with another rivulet originating from the corner of her mouth. I'd seen blood before, the fake kind, the Kensington Gore you get on film sets, but this... this was real. All too real.

Her eyes were closed. Her hands were limp. Her body was draped over Danny's lap, Danny perched against Gabby's car, Gabby's head in the circle of Danny's arms.

And Danny was stroking her hair, bent over her. He had been crying, mouthing "oh, God, oh, God!" I could see the lines the tears made over his cheekbones as the saline cut through the dust.

I crawled over, the pain slicing sharp and deep when I put all my weight upon my left hand. I cried out against it, "Fuck, ah, oh, shit!" and I growled, angry at the pain, angry at what I saw. I grit my teeth against it and kept moving. "Gabby!" I bellowed. "Jesus, no, Gabby!"

I reached her and Danny, ignoring the pain in my hand. "Is she...?" Danny met my eyes, his own glistening with un-shed tears. 

"She's alive, Tom? Is she? Please tell me she's alive."

And then it all made sense. It all made perfect sense to me as I sat there in that awfully sturdy moulded plastic chair across from Danny Sialia, the lawyer from New York, as I sat there in the emergency department of that small hospital in my father's home town of Greenock. The tears, the questioning, the little look on his face when I told him I was Gabby's boyfriend.

"You and Gabby have more than simply a professional relationship." I said, my voice suddenly tense. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the truth of what I suspected. "Now that I think on it, it's rather bizarre that you'd be this upset over one of your colleagues being injured."

Danny looked me square in the eye. "On the day of her... accident, back in Chicago; that night... I was going to ask Gabrielle to marry me."

***

I know it's an odd thing, but I felt a bit like that film and comic character, Scott Pilgrim. You know, the one who was destiny-bound to kill all of his intended's "evil ex-boyfriends" before he could date her? Well, I was myself seemingly required by Karma to to work my way through all of Gabby's ex-paramours and other men in her life before I could truly have her to myself. 

First, Jimbo Buckley'd been rearing his fugly head of late. Then I had to pass the muster of Gabby's beefcake cousin, Johnny. And then, I had to deal with this Italian American black-haired, olive-skinned stallion of a former potential fiance Danny Sialia. 

I wondered in an insane moment whether Providence or whatever required that I stand up out of my chair and flying side kick Danny's face, rendering him into a sparkling cascade of gold coins; a booming voice in the background announcing, "Level up!" 

I'd also a sudden craving for a Coke Zero.

But the problem was, I genuinely liked this guy. 

By the time I came back to myself, the ED nurse had pushed the double doors open. Both Danny and I perked our heads up, like canines hearing a dog whistle. The nurse looked down at a sheet of paper and called out, "Tom Hiddleston? Mister Hiddleston?" 

"I'm Tom." 

Let me just say how thankful I was to see the nurse. I think I would have lost my shit if the doctor had come out. Given what I'd seen on Casualty and the like, the doctor paying an ED waiting room visit usually meant the "we're sorry, we did all we could but..." speech, and that was the speech I did not want to hear. 

But it, was the nurse. Thankfully. He approached and stood beside me. "Miss MacKenzie's awake, and she's been asking for you."

Danny and I both sighed out our immense relief. "Oh, thank God," I whispered a prayer of thanksgiving, running a hand through my still dust-covered curls. I met Danny's eyes and we both smiled with a wondrous, unspoken understanding. 

"You can come back and see her now, Mr. Hiddleston." 

"Yes, please." I stood to follow the nurse, the movement jarring my hand a little bit against my chest. "Ouch, fuck." Before I could walk away, I felt Danny's hand on the small of my back. 

"Wait," Danny halted me. He paused, swallowing, bracing himself. "Tell me, do you... do you love her, man?"

Jesus Christ in his hole with Bill Murray on Groundhog Day, and holy mother of deja fucking vu. What was it with the men in Gabby's life?

Yet, I understood. I understood completely. I knew exactly why Danny was asking this of me. You see, I'd been there, sort of, where he was. There were loves of mine over whom I'd worry or mourn if someting ever happened to them, even though we'd both moved on. So I understood, and I wanted Danny to know that. I turned and offered Danny my right hand to shake. He accepted, gripping me tightly, two-handed. "Of course I love her, very much so," I affirmed. 

"Then take good care of her, will ya?"

I nodded, firmly. "You know I will." I turned to walk down the hall, but paused. "Listen, counselor. If... if you want to stay for a mo, I'll come back out and let you know how she's doing, yeah?"

Danny grinned. "I'd appreciate that, man. Thanks."

And I'd kept that promise.

***

The nurse, a bloke named Joey, led me back through a long series of corridors, finally stopping before the first of a group of cubicles. He pulled the curtain back and ushered me inside. “Doctor Fukoja will be back to see you in a tick.”

“Thanks,” I replied, smiling. 

Joey closed the curtain behind me. “Hey,” I whispered to Gabby. I push-kicked a short, wheeled stool up beside her bed and sat down upon it. 

“Hey to you, too,” she replied. Her voice was thick, hoarse and gravelly. It sounded painful. “How’s the arm?”

“Hand,” I replied, lifting the sling a bit, “it’s nothing. It’ll be fine in a few days.”

“What about your work?” 

“It’s not a problem. Ron’s working around me. All I have to do is go die at Culloden anyway.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what, love?” I stood, leaned over and kissed her, gently upon the mouth. I let my fingers ghost over her bandaged head. “Nothing to be sorry for. Don’t worry about me, okay? Just focus on your own healing, that’s what’s important.”

I took her hand in mine, careful not to squeeze the IV site, careful not to dislodge the pulse oximeter clamped upon her index finger. “How do you feel?” 

“Concuss…” she coughed once, twice, three times, cleared her throat, coughed again and said, “concussed. Got me bell rung, I did.”

I laughed. “Ah, that’s nothing. You get your bell rung in taekwondo all the time. I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah,” she croaked, “yeah, but that’s a foot, not a block of pavement.”

I shrugged. “Same thing.”

I let my thumb draw little circles around the IV on the back of her hand, hating the sight of it, wishing I could tear it out, lift her in my arms and take her home. I wanted to go home. Damn me, but I felt that hateful prickle behind my eyes, and things around the room began to blur. I felt the weight of saline fill my eye sockets. I turned away from Gabby and scrubbed frantically at them, faking a sneeze to cover up the fact of my tears. Last thing I wanted was for Gabby to see me cry, goddamnit.

“I’d say bless you, but that was no sneeze.” She laughed, her laughter morphing into a brief fit of coughs.

“I can’t fool you, can I?” I grinned, thrilled that she hadn't lost her humour.

“No, you’re a crap actor, you know.”

"That I am.” I smiled at her and sat back down upon the stool. We fell into a companionable, wistful silence, until I spoke again. “Danny’s outside, waiting for word of you.”

“Is he, then?” she asked, plainly, her eyelids lowering just a fraction. 

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s worried about you… he… he still cares for you, you know, and… and that’s okay.”

She yawned, and her eyes grew heavier. “I know he does, I know… he does. I know it is,” she said, her words becoming saturated with fatigue, laden with sleep. She inhaled deeply and yawned again.

I leaned in again and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. “Rest now, love,” I instructed, “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” She nodded, her eyes closing. I started humming a tune, one that popped into my head unexplicably, but there it was. It was an upbeat tune, but when I hummed it, I slowed the tempo down to a lullaby rhythm, trying to soothe, to calm, to love. Gabby smiled in her near-sleep state and picked up the song, her words slurred, her notes horribly off-key, but she carried it nonetheless.

“Noticing the days… hurrying by; when you’re in love… my how they fly…”

***

A pouring rain met us upon our arrival back in London. The moisture in the air made the pain in my hand increase by a factor of ten.

Luke had been a complete and utter saint. He did the following for us whilst we stayed in Greenock:

a) He took dictation for me on a Tweet to which I felt compelled to respond, 

b) Luke dealt with the headaches and agonies of getting Gabby's car repaired, 

c) He collected Gabby's medications from the chemist, and coordinated her follow up doctor visits for our return,

d) He managed, somehow to keep my involvement in the hotel collapse out of the media, and

e) Heaven bless him, but he even drove a hired car up to Greenock to collect the both of us.

"Give me that, Tom, you great idiot." He grasped my suitcase and nearly yanked it from my grip. I relinquished it, gratefully, and he hefted the case into the boot of Gabby's Audi, settling it on top of Gabby's work equipment.

"Listen, Luke, you don't have to...."

"Yes, I do," he quipped. "You scared the living fuck out of me, and I'm never taking my eyes off the two of you again..." I raised an eyebrow, quizzically, "fine, yes, in a manner of speaking." He paused, I grinned. "Oh, do shut up, Tom."

"I said nothing."

"You were going to say something." 

"Yeah," I shrugged, "I was."

"Get your arse in the car, then. If I have to drive another 600 kilometres, all the way back to London, I want to get started now."

"You just want to drive the Audi," I joked, "now that it's all fixed up and looking all hot again."

"I had to deal with the bloody insurers, you know. They're fuckwits, the lot of them." He pointed to the car, and then to himself, poking at his chest. "I deserve to drive it. Fruits of my labour and all that."

"You're the best, man. Thank you." 

"Nah," Luke shrugged, "all in a day's work. You'll just have to pay me twelve percent next month."

"It's a ruddy deal."

Obviously, neither Gabby nor I could drive. In short, Gabby was in a world of hurt, and would take time to completely heal, but she'd be fine.

And oh, sweet Jesus, the relief of it all.

***


	13. Tweet Twenty Four

July

Luke Windsor @lukejwindsor: Drove 7.5 hrs today Argyll to London, in an Audi A6. In the rain. And I'd do it again. @twhiddleston @gabbymaccfi #itissochoice #audiuk #iwantone

 

 

Well, as I'd said before, London, in its typical fashion, greeted our homecoming with a seething, storming rain that started as soon as we reached Luton. 

Never failed, the London rain. 

It’s like it knew we were heading its way.

It took us precisely seven hours and forty two minutes to reach our building from Scotland, and another ten minutes to get Gabby and myself extricated from the car and walked round to the front door, both of us completely and utterly knackered and not in much of a state to be walking anywhere. 

As we approached our front door under Luke's gentle guidance, and thankfully, his overlarge red brolly, we were met by yet another stormy sight. 

My mum and my baby sister, Emma, standing in the open doorway, side by side, their arms crossed over their chests, and worry writ large upon their eerily similar features. 

Never failed, mum and Emma.

And they knew we were heading their way.

Luke, burdened with my case in his left hand and Gabby’s sling bag across his chest, helped Gabby up the front steps. She wobbled only once, grimacing as an undue pressure pushed up against her wounded stump. She insisted upon walking on her prosthetic again, even though a small, still-healing rupture in the bottom of her stump had been giving her fits. Yet, she remained stoic, taking the stairs one by one. 

Of course, when Mum saw her, the lovely woman immediately dashed down the steps in her short heels, cardi, and skirt -- out into the bloody cats and dogs rain, mind you – and collected Gabby from Luke, an arm around Gabby's back and a shoulder under her arm. 

Bless her.

Gabby looked over her shoulder, and gave me a wide-eyed "what do I do now?" look. I shooed her along with a gesture, nodding that it was okay. She shrugged, blew me a kiss, and mouthed a “thanks, love” to Luke. 

Luke, I think, blushed a bit. 

He was so damn ‘aw shucks’ sometimes, it was not even funny.

“Oh, you darling!” Mum cried. “You just come with me, then. I’ll get you inside.” Up a step. “You’ll catch your death out here.” She spoke rapid-fire, heaving Gabby up the next step. “You must be Gabby. Well, I’m Thomas’ mum, but you can call me Diana, or Di, whatever you’d like.” Another step. “Oh, I’m so thrilled to finally get to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” The final step. I heard Mum take a heavy breath, tiring a bit. “Now give us your keys and we’ll….” Her voice trailed off as she brought Gabby over the threshold into the building. 

"Hi, mum...." I said to the air behind her, wigging my fingers in a pathetic wave. Typical Diana Hiddleston. She knew... that I knew... she'd get round to me eventually. First things first with her, as always.

And that was okay. Because she chose Gabby over me.

I'd not have it any other way.

We stepped inside and Luke unloaded the bags into the hallway. I dropped Gabby's rucksack into the pile. “Where should we put yours?”

It’s as if he bloody well knew I wouldn’t be sleeping in my own flat that night. And the ruddy arsehole was right. I had absolutely no intention of letting Gabby sleep alone until she was stronger.

“It can all go in Gabby’s flat for now. I can take mine up later.”

Luke smiled, smug, and nodded. “Gabby’s flat it is.” He picked the luggage back up, including the rucksack, and pushed Gabby’s door open, disappearing inside.

Leaving just Emma and myself in the foyer.

She swatted my right shoulder. “You fucking jerk!”

“Ouch, that hurt, you shit!” I rolled my arm, stretching the bicep. “What the hell was that for?”

“For going off and nearly getting yourself killed.” She kicked her foot out at me, but I stepped back, dodging the blow. 

“Oh,” I said, ashamed, “you heard what happened, then?”

“Yes! Of course I heard, you idiot! Luke phoned Mum last week. Told her everything. Jesus, Tom, she was so freaked out that she even phoned Dad and they managed to have a decent chin wag about you -- and it lasted more than thirty seconds.”

“But I’m fine! I was always fine!” I protested. “Gabby’s the one who was hurt! She was inside when it started to go. She fell. I was just there! I wasn’t even….”

“Doesn’t matter, Tom.” She cut me off, taking a step toward me. She reached up, I flinched a little, and yet, she lay a gentle hand on my face. She wiggled her fingers against the stubble on my cheek. “We’re family, you arse. We worry.” She took a step back and crossed her arms about her chest. 

Oh, shit. Lecture time. Here it comes.

“You remember when Sarah was in that prang in India three years ago? And she was all the way down there and we were all the way up here and you were pacing Mum's sitting room like a fucking trapped panther, driving me and Mum bonkers until Yakov called back and told us she was fine, just bumps and bruises? And remember how you weren't even satisfied with that? That you didn't stop making that stupid bug-eyed, tight-lipped worry face that you make, and you didn't shut up about it until after you’d seen her on Skype?”

“Of course, I remember. I was scared shitle...” Realization. “Oh, yeah.”

“You could have phoned us, you know,” she said, quietly. 

“I’m sorry, I was so focused on Gabby, I didn’t think. I was in that ward every day, Em. I barely slept, and I really didn’t talk with anyone outside the ward but Luke.”

“That doesn’t surprise me a bit.” She slugged my other arm. “When you love, T-Rex, you love deep.”

I laughed, low and quiet, rubbing my shoulder. “T-Rex,” I said, meditatively. “You….you haven’t called me that in years.”

“It’s about time I start again, yeah?” Tears started forming in her eyes. The little bint. She’d get me going if I looked at her barmy face any longer.

I cocked my head, gave her an “aww, c’mere,” and opened my arms (I was freed from my sling, thank God). She stepped right in, pushing herself to me and turning her cheek to press against my chest. “I love you, Em-bear.”

She tightened her grip round my middle, and I felt her grin against me. “I know, arsehole.”

***

By the time Emma and I entered Gabby's flat, Mum had my lovely girlfriend stretched out upon the sofa like a pasha, two bed pillows behind her head, a knitted afghan over her legs, and a tray of tea things upon the sofa table. Mum had a talent for finding her way around a kitchen, especially ones not her own. Gabby's prosthetic leg sat perched against the cushions, ready for her use. 

"Are you comfortable, then, Gabby, darling?" Mum gave Gabby a pat upon her shoulder.

"Perfectly, Diana." She covered Mum's hand with her own, beaming. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." That task finished and ticked from her list of Mum-type things to do, Mum turned her attention to me. 

Which was apparently quite entertaining for Emma, who perched herself at the end of the sofa and grinned a Cheshire at me. I stuck my tongue out and curled my lip at her. We both laughed. Emma then turned and set her hands upon Gabby's lap. "How are you feeling?" 

I never heard the rest of their conversation, however. Why? Because Mum dragged me bodily by the right elbow toward Gabby's kitchen. "Thomas William. Kitchen. Now, please."

She pushed down upon my shoulder, forcing me to sit in one of the dining chairs. Yes, my friends. I was a six foot two grown man, thirty-five years old, rather strong and quite successful in my career, yet, I could be led round practically by the ear with disgusting ease by a sixty-five year old, five foot four woman.

She held out her hand, snapping her fingers twice. "Let me see."

I set my wounded hand in hers, and she sat down in the chair beside me. She unwrapped the bandage, removed the splint, and tutted at the sight. My left hand, although no longer as swollen, or as misshapen as it had been, displayed for my mother's enjoyment a gruesome combination of shades of puke yellow, bogey green, and shit brown. 

I wiggled my fingers in waves in order to prove to her that my hand still functioned, just as it was when created in her womb.

Mum rubbed her hand over mine, smoothing out some of the creases left by the wrappings. "Gabby's a nice girl, Tom," she commented.

"I like to think so." 

A heady sound of the laughter of a pair of young women wafted in from the living room. Both Mum and I perked up at it, and we both smiled.

"Is her job always this dangerous?" Mum picked up the bandage and methodically stretched it out along its length. 

"No," I said. "It's quite safe. They take precautions." She shot me an incredulous look. "Something... went wrong."

 

Mum tutted again, holding her hand out. "Squeeze my fingers," she commanded. I complied, looking up at her face. She nodded, apparently satisfied with the residual strength in my hand. "What do you think went wrong?" 

I shook my head, pursing my lips. "No idea. Gabby doesn't even know. Building was old, maybe it just collapsed on its own."

She placed the splint and the end of the bandage on my palm and started wrapping, making little criss-crosses with the material across my hand and up my wrist. When she finished, she placed my hand upon the table, and set her own hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Well," she said, calmly. "I certainly hope it was an accident. I'd hate to think anyone could do such a horrible thing intentionally." She pushed her chair back, stood up, and kissed me on the top of my head. 

 

"Because, Tom, if they did," she said, sweetly, with one of those old-biddy Sunday smiles, "I'd be rather tempted to hunt them down and kill them with my own bare hands."

***

Mum, Luke and Emma left after a quick meal of Chinese takeaway and warm fizzy drinks. Luke fielded phone calls from Ben and Tina, whom he convinced that we were both fine, and it was entirely unnecessary to visit us that night. 

As she stood in the doorway to go, Mum rose upon her toes and kissed my cheek, setting her hand against the kiss. "I love you, Thomas."

"You too. Mum." I bent and returned the kiss.

She looked around me toward Gabby, then back up at me. "Take care of her. She's one to keep, love."

"I plan on it."

"Check the dressings on her leg and on her head twice a day, and use the antiseptic cream."

"I will, Mum."

"Make sure she gets quantities of fluid, plenty of tea and milk, then."

"Absolutely, Mum." I heard Emma giggle from the foyer. I raised an eyebrow at her and grimaced over Mum's head.

"And you, epsom salts, paracetamol, and rub that Boots ointment I left you into that hand of yours. Three times a day, yes?"

"Yes, Mum." I nodded, and kissed her again, "Bye, Mum. Love you."

"And," Mum whispered, conspiratorially, "spend some alone time with her. She needs you."

Mum couldn't be more correct, but the other way round. I needed her. 

 

It had been too long. Just think on it, just for a moment. We'd known each other for a fortnight, then we were apart for nearly three weeks; only to be together for two days, and essentially apart for another ten. 

Granted, we were together in the sense of being in the same room and in relative closeness to each other, but we hadn't been 'together' for some time. 

The sun started going down, ribbons of orange and and purple and yellow and pink painting the clearing London sky. Gabby wanted to move to the bedroom, tired as she was, and she didn't have the heart to tell my mum that her leather sofa was not the most comfortable lay-upon in the world. 

I lifted her, cradling her against my chest, and I carried her to the bedroom. "This is familiar," I joked. I set her down and crawled upon her bed, situating and arranging the pillows and duvet around the both of us. 

I sat against the headboard, and Gabby scooted over, tucking herself, child-like against me. "Take this off," she tugged at my t-shirt. 

"Only if you take yours off."

Within moments, the removal of clothing articles escalated to the point of both of us being completely naked beneath the duvet. I honestly had no idea how far we would go, or even could go that night; but just to be there, skin to skin, body to body, flesh to flesh, with Gabby, well, that was enough.

Gabby's fingers toyed with the bit of hair on my chest, and I sighed with it. However, my thoughts started nagging at me a bit. "Would you mind terribly if I asked you something personal?"

"Anything, you know that." 

"What happened with Danny?"

She sighed. "I knew you'd ask." She squirmed against me a little. "He was in his third year at Kent -- that's a law school in Chicago. I couldn't ask him to give all that up to care for me. I was practically an invalid after the accident. Besides, Johnny didn't like him." She laughed.

I nodded, biting my lip. "So, you, what? You broke it off?"

"I suppose, yeah." 

I thought, long and hard, about what I wanted to say, but finally just said it. "I think... I think if you'd have let him, he'd have taken care of you."

She lapsed into silence, her fingers drawing patterns upon my chest. "I know. I know, but he's happy now. Happier than he would have been with me." She looked up at me, challenging. "What about your ex-girlfriends? What happened with the last one?"

I frowned and smacked my lips. "She broke it off. Over text. Still don't know why."

"Who was she? What was her name?"

"Bryce Delancey."

Gabby stopped her fingers, and her nails dug in a bit. "The actress?"

"Oh, so you'd not heard of me, but you'd heard of her, then? That's the second time, love. First Ben, then Bryce. What the hell?" I joked.

"Only because she'd been in the Financial Times, for that property sale mess she was involved in."

"Yeah," I grimaced. "I knew nothing of that shite. Surprised me more than anyone when it broke, but we'd been apart by then. She was so tight with her money... kept so close to the vest, you know? She kept so many things from me. It was as if we never really were... together except for... you know, when we were... together."

"I don't need to know any more." Gabby pulled herself up and kissed me, wincing slightly with the movement. "Ooh, got a bit giddy, there." She recovered quickly and kissed me again. "Any other relationships I need to know about?"

I grinned and bit my fingernail, little brain engaging, leaving me feeling quite impish. Enough seriousness. Time for some fun. "Well, there's Luke, before he met his current boyfriend."

I felt her stiffen against me. 

Aha. Hook.

"Luke? What do you mean, Luke?"

"We are quite close, you know, Luke and I." I reached around and twirled a loose bit of Gabby's hair around my finger.

Her nails dug into my arm. "You're fucking joking."

I shrugged, biting my lip, widening my eyes. 

Line.

"You're absolutely joking. You and Luke?"

"So... so what if it were true?" 

Sinker.

I felt her fingers move again, this time, working in a bit of a sensuous wave against my skin. "Well," she said, quietly, "that may be rather hot."

Not the answer I'd expected. Not at all. Holy shit.

I looked down at her. "Okay. Okay, now you... now you're joking." 

She shrugged, biting her lip, and widening her eyes. "Why do you think Tina and I get on so well?"

Jesus Christ. Ok, men? Listen up, now. Blokes. Guys. The image in my head at that very moment, the picture I was seeing, what little brain was showing me? You know what I mean, right? 

I mean. Fuck. Me. 

I don't care who you are or what you think, or where you're from or what you do for a living. If you are a heterosexual male.. or, hell, maybe even not... but the idea of two women... in, er... yeah, you know. 

Fuck. 

Ladies, It's a guy thing, and my very male, very active, very horny little brain was going ape shit right about then. Think Jack Davenport's Steve Taylor in Coupling and his rant shedding light upon the male fascination with films like the fictional Lesbian Spank Inferno. 

Yeah, it's like that. Without the spanking. Or with. Wahey! Naked bottoms!

 

Eeeuch. I was quite rapidly losing it. Or gaining it. Depending on how you um, looked at it.

 

"You," I choked, coughing, "you and Tina?"

Gabby pulled the corner of her mouth up in a lopsided grin. Her hand moved from my arm to my abdomen, once again making little circles upon my rapidly heating skin.

"No," she squeezed a bit of my flesh, "no, I was joking, just like you were. I'm quite hetero."

"Oh," I breathed, "yeah, okay. Yeah, me too. Hetero, yeah."

Her hand moved lower, her fingernails swirling amongst the patch of hair between my legs. Jesus, but I thought she was tired. Maybe not.

"But... the Tina thing?" She whispered, sensually. She peered up at me, batting her eyelashes and licking her lips. "Who says it can't be arranged, if we asked, her, really... really... nicely."

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ with a Jesus Christ and a Jesus Christ and a threesome... threesome...?! Holy shit, there was nothing else to say because my little brain wouldn't let me think of anything the fuck else to say.

But the rest of my brain? The rest of my brain, the rational, Tom part of my brain -- well, I knew Gabby was once again, taking the piss.

But still. Threesome? Fuck. That was it. I was done for.

"How about we just stick to the two of us right now, yeah?" I rolled her over onto her back, careful not to jar her head or her leg. I crawled atop her, my knee pushing her legs slowly apart. "I don't think I want to share you just yet," I laughed, deep and throaty, "even with Tina."

She moaned, low, cavernous, almost purring. I felt the vibration of it as I bent to her breast and took her pliant flesh into my mouth, drawing my tongue over her. I hummed against her skin, and I felt her fingers curl against the back of my skull, pushing me harder into her.

"Tom," she squirmed a little, and grasped my right hand. "I need... I... please."

I released her breast and looked up into her eyes. I'd missed that. I was delighted to see it again. That look. That dark, wide-irised, smouldering desire writ large upon the depths of her eyes. Suddenly, I didn't care how knackered I was. I didn't care about any pain, any fear, any need for rest or recuperation.

She was my rest. She was my recuperation, and I swore I would always be hers.

I let her guide my hand over her breasts, down her torso, coming to rest in that warm, comfortable place between her legs. She bucked her hips into my touch. "Please," she begged. "Please, Tom."

I kissed her head over the sticking plaster there, then I moved lower, kissing behind her ear, trailing my lips down her neck as I let my fingers begin their work below.

"It," I whispered, "it will be my absolute pleasure, love."

***


	14. Tweet Twenty Five

Tweets all/no replies

15 July

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: RT: "@missgilly What's your favourite foreign dish?" Indian gulab jamun. Definitely. #yummy

 

I stepped out in to the small clearing, my boots sinking measure by measure into the rain-saturated earth. The grass was new and verdant, the multi-hued dawn light reflecting off the individual blades. I kicked at the turf, upending and uprooting here and there various tiny purple and yellow flowers.

The flowers, in their turn, provided the fledgling day with a scent of spring and renewal, a quality of unmistakable -- and somewhat hateful -- life to the air around me. 

I inhaled it, deeply, trying to savour every breath of it, wondering if it would be the last spring I'd ever see, ever know, ever live through. 

If it was the last, it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

The shift and weight of my sword at my left side, and the dagger at my right brought me, thankfully, out of my idiotic, bloody poetic ruminations. Brought me back to my purpose -- the reason I was there, the reason I was treading through the mud in my brown and black riding boots upon the Bois de Bolougne. 

I was there, simply, to kill. 

I was not there to maim, not to merely wound or cut or stab, but to kill. To end the life of a long-time enemy from whom I should have -- could have -- freed this world years ago. 

He'd challenged me to a duel, the goddamn red bastard, and by God, he'd have one.

I took my place beside my second and my physician, both of whom simply nodded to me, averting their eyes, silent. Fearful to speak to me. Good. I liked it that way.

I removed my scarlet uniform coat, hat, boots, sword belt, and my golden officer's gorget, handing them piece by piece to my second. All trappings of my career, of my identity as a regimental Captain, I'd stripped away. I'd become simply a man. Just a man, barefoot, in waistcoat, faun breeches, and shirtsleeves.

A man intent upon murder.

I pulled my sword from its sheath, and presented it, two-handed, to the short, portly, so-called gentleman who was to be our referee for the proceedings. He inspected my weapon, holding it to the morning sunlight. He did the same with the heavy-bladed, basket-handled beast of a sword belonging to my red-haired opponent. 

Satisfied with the condition of both weapons, the referee stepped back and in a cold, high, French-accented voice, instructed us, "Cross your blades." 

I did so, slapping my sabre on either side of the claymore, feeling out the mettle of the metal, so to speak. Satisfied, I turned my head to the side and spat. I met my opponent's eyes. They widened under my gaze, flashing blue and bloodshot-white. 

His face hardened, the muscles tensed, the nose curled with disdain.

Disdain which I matched in equal measure.

The referee dropped a red kerchief. I watched from my peripheral vision as it fell. It seemed to fall forever. I held my breath. Falling, falling, falling... and the moment it hit the ground, I inhaled, quickly, readying my body for the fight. I struck, kicking forward with a long step, bringing my sabre arcing up and across, two-handed, headed straight for the bloody fucking Scot's neck. 

He parried, checked, and threw me back with the tang of his blade against mine. He lurched forward, his body thrust full force into my own, compelling me to grapple with his massive weight and bulk. I grasped my sabre at half-blade, cutting into my fingers as I did so, but I cared not. Using the additional leverage of sword across body, I pushed with all I had. I shoved the man back, away. He stepped haphazardly, himself off balance... and within reach of the tip of my weapon.

I heard a scream. It originated from somewhere behind the man, a female voice, a horrified screech. I tried desperately not to look, not to be distracted. The scream was of no matter, anyway. I'd heard thousands. Besides, it was only a woman, and I had little care for women.

The Scot, on the other hand, turned his own head to look. Yes! I lashed out, seeing the opportunity, but he was too quick. Damn. Again, he deflected my thrust, his blade stinging my own. 

A massive, swinging blow landed dangerously low upon my sword, near the tang, with immense force. The metal in my hand vibrated painfully, sending violent waves through muscle, sinew and bone; compelling me, against my will, to open my fingers.

"You bastard!"

My weapon, unleashed, hurtled through the air in great circles... whirling, seemingly slowed down in time; whirling, whirling, on and on and on, only to be lost within the trees and hedge bushes that edged the clearing.

"God damn it all to hell!" I screamed, furious, pounding my fist into the soft ground. I'd been rendered weaponless. I had no choice. I straightened and stood my ground, knees open and bent, arms wide, ready to strike. I growled, teeth bared, waiting for the blow, preparing to do whatever I could to prevent what was slowly -- no, rapidly -- becoming the inevitable.

Instead of doing murder, I was about to be murdered.

The Scot smiled at me, the fucking bastard. He actually grinned, showing me practically every single one of his unnaturally white teeth. 

He cocked his head, ever so slightly... ever so menacingly, and the smile faded; replaced by a half-lipped sneer and a visage so full of hate and violence it could have frightened Goliath himself. 

"Goodbye, Jack," he whispered.

There was that woman's scream again. He looked behind, briefly, then turned back, his attention once again upon me. I stood firm. He pelted toward me, full bore, his bare feet churning, digging out great clouts of earth as he ran, his sword held aloft above his head. 

He opened his gaping jaw and out came a horrifying Scottish war cry, some phrase in that godawful Gaelic ending in a blood curdling ululation from both tongue and throat. 

He lashed out at me with his heel, surprising me with the move, driving square into my chest. I lost all of my breath as I was thrown backwards, my body splashing unhindered upon the mud-soaked ground. 

I found my legs and wriggled back, trying to escape whatever fate the Scot had in mind, but it was to no end. His sword twirled once -- above his head. He grasped the hilt two-handed, and brought it down, toward my body, in a perfect parabolic arc. 

I flinched against it, my arms raised over my face. I screamed, "Jesus God, have mercy!" and then I doubled over in intense, ripping pain. 

Was this death? Too painful to be death.

No, not death. Worse than death.

The tip of the claymore's blade ripped clean through the front of my doeskin breeches, tearing a great bite into the flesh beneath my flies; between my legs. I clasped the gaping wound with both hands, trying in desperation to push my skin, my organs, my blood, back together.

My mouth gaped open in breathy anguish, but no sound came from it. 

The woman screamed once more.

The big red beast glared at me, and spat upon the ground near my feet. There was yet another shrieking yell, and this time, the Scot turned and ran after the sound; dropping his blade and paying me no further attention.

"Cut!"

Dom rushed over to me and held his hand out. "Up ye get, now, man." I clasped his in mine and he hauled me to my feet, brushing at the clots of mud that clung to my back, and swiping away some Kensington Gore from my breeches. "I think Ron's gonna call print," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "I think we got it, that one. I think we did, yeah?"

Ron plodded over, his wellies squishing into the artificially-dampened turf. It hadn't rained for days, not since Gabby and I returned to London. Therefore, the sprinklers and garden hoses did the job for this bit of ground just outside Luton. "We're printing that one, boys. Great work. Off with the both of you. Dom, ready yourself for the next shot with Ruth on the other side of the field here."

Dom clapped. "Yes! Brilliant!" Dom's jogging feet squooshed away toward the line of caravans parked alongside the field. The lighting crew dimmed the artificial "sunrise" lights, and the field returned to its natural afternoon light.

"Tom!" Ron stopped me. "that looked amazing. You've been seriously on your A game since you got back from Scotland. This has been like, Emmy quality work here."

I smiled, still shaking damp grass and filth from my hands and scraping muck from the back of my arms. 

Emmy quality. BAFTA quality. Oscar quality. Whatever. Not as if I'd heard that before. Strange that a comment that should have made me giddy made me cranky. Why? The moment I break character with a man like Black Jack Randall is not the right time to give me the opinion that I deserve an Emmy for my work. 

I may not be a method actor, but a character, for any actor, will tend to hang on for a few minutes. Survival instinct -- characters have it too. I know it sounds silly, but it's true. 

Just look at my mischief in the Avengers gag reel and you'll see what I mean. Truly, how long a character lives offstage or when the cameras stop rolling depends wholly upon the actor. 

Just look at what happened with Heath Ledger and you'll see what I mean. 

I make it a practice to try my utmost to shake off a negative character as soon as I can -- for that very reason.

"Thanks, Ron," I shook his hand, my humour coming back to me, "I appreciate it. Nothing's better than being run through to death one day, and being separated from my balls on a permanent basis the next."

Ron laughed and pointed at me. "Best thing about non-linear filming, my friend. Death before dismemberment." He chuckled. "Check the schedule, ok? Tomorrow, we'll be in the 1940's, back at Ealing." He squeezed my shoulder. "Listen, man. Get that pigtailed wig off. Go home to Gabby. Get the nice, professorial Frank Randall in your head, and forget about his ancestor. We're done with that asshole."

"Hey," I poked him in the arm. "He may be an arsehole but he's my arsehole, and I've grown rather attached."

"You and your eeeeeeevil characters, Tom." Ron poked me back. "Next thing you'll be saying that Jack's like Loki - that he just needs a hug."

I grinned. "But, Ron! That's exactly what he needs!"

***

The days with Gabby started to feel more and more routine. Don't get me wrong, not routine in a bad way, not at all.

In fact, I often craved routine. My older sister at times would half jokingly wonder aloud if I had some form of spectrum disorder because of my love for schedules and having things in just the right spot and in just the right way. 

Not that I was picky or persnickety or the like. I'd never be upset or angry over the loss of order. On the contrary, I could easily accept change and go with the flow with the best of them. I was an actor. I had to.

I just liked it better when I knew what was coming.

So, yes. Routine. Since Gabby was still healing up from her leg injury, we still spent most of our time in her flat so she wouldn't have to climb stairs to excess. She'd gone back to work, spending part of her time in the office and working the rest from home.

I turned my key in Gabby's lock and pushed the heavy door open. "Hi, honey, I'm home!" As soon as I walked in the door I was greeted with a quite delightful sensory experience.

The tantalizing scent of Indian food mingled with the equally delicious sight of Gabby, sitting upon the floor, in naught but a tight sleeveless top and an even tighter pair of denim shorts; dishes of steaming hot food spread out upon a blanket before her, a bottle of red wine uncorked and waiting to fill two glasses.

Yeah, my mouth watered. 

No. Change that. I bloody drooled.

"What's all this for, then?" I asked, setting down my rucksack. "It looks delicious." I bent and touched my lips to hers. I closed my eyes, and kissed her deeper. The rest of my body followed me down, legs collapsing and folding up beneath the kiss, seemingly involuntarily, until I was on my knees beside her. 

Gabby lifted herself up onto her knees and placed her hands upon either side of my head, holding me in place. I felt her hum against my mouth, and I opened to her, relishing in the feel of her warm, soft tongue glide against my lower lip, her teeth following with a playful nip. She pulled back, away from me.

My stomach dropped, suddenly. I sat back upon my haunches, running my hand through my hair and down my face. "Oh shit, Gabby, did I forget something? Are we supposed to be celebrating something? Oh, Jesus, if we are, I'm so, so incredibly...."

She laid a hand upon my lips, shushing me. "It's nothing, really," she replied, at last. "Perhaps," her finger traced the bottom one, and I opened for her, "perhaps we're just celebrating... us."

I eased back down and sighed as she ran her finger over the wet inside of my lip near my teeth. "Us," I whispered, "that's definitely something to celebrate." I grasped her hand and kissed the palm, making staccato noises as I showered little pecks over her love line and life line. "But, I'm famished. I truly want to celebrate, but... can we eat some of this amazing spread first?"

She pulled her hand back and popped me on the nose. "Chow down, chowhound."

During our repast, Gabby filled me in on her past few days at work. 

"I've been spending most of my time finishing up that report on the Fernpoint fire."

"Yeah, and?" I took a bite of a samosa, cupping my hand beneath my chin to catch any falling crumbs. "What's the verdict?"

"Well," she took a sip of wine, "the good news is that Tyco's off the hook. The system worked just like it was supposed to. It fired all of the product, the tanks were empty."

I chewed and swallowed the rest of the spiced potato mixture. "What's the bad news?"

"The bad news is that the fire started in a place where a fire couldn't have started."

"So...."

"Well, it wasn't my job to make the call this time, but, well.... It doesn't smell right."

"Arson again?"

Gabby shrugged, tilted her head (damn her) and took another sip of wine. "You said it, not me."

***

We finished our bowls of Rogan Josh and Shahi Korma, and mopped up as much sauce as possible with shared pieces of naan. 

I poured more wine for us, killing the bottle into Gabby's goblet. She took a long draft of the red liquid, stood, and walked into the kitchen. She came back carrying not only her wine glass, but another bowl, filled with a familiar dessert. 

It was a delicacy that I immediately knew would become our mutual favourite. Those delectable little cheese and dough balls swimming in a rose and honey flavoured syrup. 

Gulab jamun.

Seeing those, my thoughts went straight back to our first date, on our very first day together, at Masala Zone. I smiled, recalling the undeniable personal and well, yeah, sexual attraction between the two of us -- an attraction solidified by that little blob of syrup on my face, upon Gabby's finger, between my lips.

Yes, my friends, it's confirmed. I am one of those sad sack arseholes who believes in love at first sight. I'd suspected it before, but at that moment, I knew it.

And my body knew it. 

And Gabby knew it, because she didn't bring the bowl of desserts to me on the floor, rather, she walked into her bedroom with it.

Oh. My. God. Was she thinking what I thought she was thinking?

She was. She was thinking exactly what I thought she was thinking.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ cooked with fresh tomatoes, onions, ginger and curry leaves in hot sauce with garlic naan and rice.

I sprang up, stripped off my shirt, tossed it upon the sofa, and followed, hot on her heels, into the bedroom. 

She had set out a number of towels upon the hardwood floor beside her bed. Gabby set the bowl on the side table. She perched herself upon the edge of the bed, and released her leg from her prosthetic. I rushed to her side and grasped it, pulling it off for her, and setting it gingerly to the side.

I tented my arms over her, my hands upon the duvet. She tilted her head ever so slightly, damn her, and I moved in for the attack. I licked and moved my mouth over her newly exposed neck, nuzzling into her skin beneath her jawline, catching an intoxicating whiff of her perfume.

She hummed contentedly. I felt her hand grasp the back of my neck. "What are those for?" I asked, whispering in her ear and nipping at her earlobe.

"Whatever you want them for," she replied, languidly. She moved off the bed and sat, cross-legged upon the floor. She grasped the bowl and set it upon her lap. "Come here and get your dessert."

I knelt before her, and lifted the spaghetti strap camisole over her head. I threw the fabric to the side and caught her still uplifted arms in my hands, the pose making her breasts better defined and perked out on the sides. I let my fingers draw down her arms, tickling underneath, and cupping the weight of her breasts in my two hands. 

Such pleasurable things, those bits of flesh. 

Gabby's hand reached into her lap, and she picked up one of the sweet globes, showing it to me for a long moment. I leaned forward to take a bite, but she pulled it back. "Nuh, uh, uh," she teased. I groaned. 

She took the dessert and ... oh, Jesus! I inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath. My hands trembled, and I'm sure the muscles in my chin followed suit. 

For, my friends, you see... Gabby took that tidbit of sweetness, and brought it to her breast, tracing the darker bit at its apex, leaving a delicious, sticky trail of dripping syrup upon her skin. She pulled the pastry away and consumed it in two bites. She licked her fingers and I was done.

I dove into her, latching my lips and tongue upon that candy-coated flesh. She held my head and arched her back, moaning. She repeated the process with the other side, that time offering me the treat, which I took in my mouth, along with a taste of the first knuckle of her finger and thumb. "Mmmmmmmm," I said, smiling as I chewed.

By the time the bowl was nearly empty, we had played with practically every part of our bodies, one painting bits of syrupy goodness over our skin, while the other would sensually lick, kiss, or suck it off. 

Until there was one piece of the dessert remaining.

Gabby and I looked at each other, both of us grinning with pure impish abandon. Yes. A challenge. Gabby set the bowl down upon the floor between our crossed legs. "On the count of three," she tilted her head, damn her, "one, two.... three!"

She lunged and I lurched and we wrestled, and we screamed and yelled like a couple of silly children, knocking the bowl over and splashing the remainder of the rose syrup over our legs.

I'm sure some of it even dripped down Gabby's abdomen to her centre. 

I would surely tend to that later.

Alas! Gabby came up victorious, the glistening globe perched between her thumb and forefinger.

She looked my naked body over once, twice, three times top to bottom, her grin lascivious. Her eyes landed on that part of me that twitched like an insane madman; the one part she had not yet anointed, or set her lips upon.

"Gabby..." I warned. 

She licked her lips, brushed the pastry into the last droplets of sweet liquid left in the bowl, and lowered first her hand, then her head, and took my newly ambrosia-laden flesh into her mouth.

I let my entire body fall backwards, hands bracing my weight on straightened arms behind me; even as my elbows were on the brink of giving out. I threw my head back, let my eyes roll up, and moaned out my most sincere compliments to the chef.

***

As you can imagine, it took some time to clean up after all that. 

I helped Gabby get into the shower, and while she was cleaning herself up, I tended to the dishes in the living room, which was not an easy task whilst I was still a sticky, sugary mess.

I had just finished rinsing out the wine glasses when my phone rang. 

I retrieved my jeans from the floor, and dug the iPhone out of the pocket. I looked at the screen. I didn't recognise the number. I thumbed the slider to answer.

"This is Tom," I said, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. I picked up a tea towel and dried one glass. 

"Tom," came an American voice I'd recognised easily. "Tom, it's Jim Buckley."

Fuck.

***


	15. Tweet Twenty Six

Tweets all/no replies

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston. Haven’t been in a DIY store in ages. Will be good to get the tools out and do manly things about the house. #homeimprovement #arrrrrr

 

“This had better be good, Jim,” I said through gritted teeth. 

Now my friends, as you all well know, I’m generally a rather congenial bloke; but when it comes to those who would hurt or insult those I love, I tend to take rather another approach.

“Just… just gimme a sec here, okay, man?

I paused, saying nothing.

“Tom?” Jim questioned. “You still there.”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Still here. What do you want?” I pulled my jeans back on, padded barefoot (sticking a bit to the hardwood), and plopped down upon a blanket on the sofa. I draped my arm across the back, and crossed my legs. 

 

This, I thought, ought to be good.

“I… I wanted to apologise. To you and to Gabby."

Well, now. That was rather unexpected. 

 

“Whatever for?” I leaned forward, resting my elbow upon my knee.

Gabby walked into the sitting room from the hallway, her hair in a towel, my t-shirt hanging from her otherwise naked body. She tilted her head at me, quizzically. I flipped my hand at her, and patted the sofa, gesturing for her to come and sit beside me. 

I hit the speakerphone button in the iPhone. Jim’s voice echoed through the spartan furnished flat. 

“For the accident. For your and Gabby’s injuries, it shouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re bloody right it shouldn’t have happened,” I replied. Thought dawned. “Wait. Wait, how did you know I…”

“I owned part of that hotel, remember? Besides, Danny told me you were hurt. He was… he was pretty upset about the whole thing.”

“So, you’re sorry. You’re sorry. Brilliant. That’s fine and good, thank you, but why the hell are you phoning me?”

Gabby shot me a wide-eyed, questioning look. “Be nice,” she mouthed.

“No,” I mouthed back. 

“Er,” Jim hesitated, “that was pretty much it, yep, just to, um, you know, say I was sorry it happened, and I, um, hope you wouldn’t, well, you know….”

I knew what he was getting at. 

As much as I liked Danny, a lawyer’s a lawyer, and I knew what this call was for.

“Danny put you up to this, yeah?”

“Oh. No!” Jim protested, “no, really, I….”

“I smell horse shit, Jim.” I said, firmly. “Listen, unlike you Americans, neither Gabby nor I are at all litigious. Therefore, there is absolutely nothing for you to worry on. Gabby’s and my medical expenses have been paid for, I lost no real time or pay at work, neither did Gabby, neither of us have any so-called emotional distress, or what, like punitive damages or whatever the fuck they’re called in those overburdened American courts. 

“In short,” I continued, “Gabby and I have absolutely no intention whatsoever to pursue any sort of legal action against you or your bloody company, or companies or anyone else for that matter. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what Danny wanted you to have us say? Is that what your team of corporate flunkies, sitting there, listening to this conversation, deep in prayer with their hands raised to God, were hoping that I’d say? Does my statement just now… does that give you the peace and relief you’ve been searching for, Jimbo? I certainly the fuck hope so, and darling, I’m oh, so happy to provide it to you.” 

I struggled to keep the volume of my voice under control, suddenly realizing upon seeing Gabby’s stunned face the sheer extent and force of my rant. Yet, I had one more thing to say. 

“And if you want that in goddamn writing, I’ll give it to you, with my autograph upon it, sealed with a lipstick kiss and a red, white, and fucking blue ribbon if you’d like.”

Silence. “Okay, Tom.” Then more silence. “Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Jim said. 

Gabby blinked at me, her features still hardened. I thought of something.

“I think you still owe Gabby an apology of her own accord,” I said. 

“Is she there?” Jim asked.

“She’s right here. She’s listening.” 

“Why?” Jim said, defensively. “She kicked me in the balls! Why should I….”

“She was defending herself, Jim,” I said, evenly, dangerously, “from your overt sexual harassment, assault, battery, unwanted touching, you name it.”

“And… and if I don’t?” 

“Gabby’s some friends in Scotland Yard. She can always press…”

He cut me off. “Gabby. Listen, Gabby. I’m very, very, truly sorry. For everything. For everything I ever did or said to you.”

“For calling her a gimp?”

“Yes, yes.”

“For insulting the scars on her beautiful back?”

“How did you...” He stopped, “yes. Yes, I’m a complete jerk. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“For insulting her honour before me, Ben, and all of our friends?” I winked at Gabby. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes. Absolutely. Gabby, I am very, very sorry.”

Gabby smiled at me. She leaned into the phone and said, “Apology accepted.”

“So, Jim,” I turned the phone back toward me. “Did that make you sufficiently squirmy? Feel like a right tit, do you?”

“Yes, Tom, you asshole.”

“I aim to please, “ I laughed. “Seriously, though Jim, you know I don’t like you.”

“I don’t like you, either, so what’s the problem?”

I laughed again, and then as my mind wandered to something Ben had told me, my laughter died away. I knew the question would seem random and out of the blue, but I had to ask it. “Why did you pull your money from Curious Incident, Jim?”

“Who told you that?” He spat. I could hear the tension in the clipped syllables of his re-emerging Bostonian accent. “Who the fuck told you that?”

“No one of importance,” I replied. Best to keep Ben and his penchant for gossip out of all of this shit. “I was also told you did so in part because a woman humiliated you. Is that so? Because if it is, I do hope it wasn’t Gabby.”

“No, it wasn’t Gabby. It takes more than a kick in the balls to humiliate me.” He laughed, and then went silent for a moment. I heard a long exhale and he asked, his voice shaking just a bit. “Did Bryce tell you about all of that stuff?”

Bryce? My ex-girlfriend? 

I felt my stomach drop. I swallowed, my mouth terribly, terribly dry all of a sudden. Jesus, I had no idea where this was going, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I… I…” I looked quickly over at Gabby, “I haven’t spoken with Bryce for months now, Jim. Why would she tell me anything?”

He was, once again, silent for a long time. I could hear his breathing. It became quicker, shorter, as if he was struggling with a severe case of indecisiveness. “Bryce, she owns my building, you know.”

I shook my head and exchanged a glance with Gabby. “No, I don’t know, Jim. I neither have nor had any idea whatsoever what business interests Bryce engaged in. I knew nothing of her arrangements whatsoever, to be honest, but okay, she owns your building, so?”

Gabby piped in. “She’s not listed as an owner on the building’s dossier. There’s no record of her in the corporate docs.”

“I know,” Jim responded, his tone instructive. “She’s an actress. She’s in the public eye, as you well know, Tom.” 

I nodded, understanding, remembering. “Yes, okay. Go on.”

“After the whole thing went blooey in the Times a few months ago, she rearranged her entire business portfolio. She like, took her name off everything and put her interests into offshore corporations and silent partnerships and shit like that. I fought her tooth and fucking nail on my companies, but she… she and her fucking lawyers, they went over my head.”

“Great, all that.” I said, “but that doesn’t answer the question as to why you had to pull out?”

“We had… difficulties. I owed her money, that’s why I had to pull out of the play. I needed it to pay her off. It was one or the other, I couldn’t do both, and she was pressuring me. I needed to pay her off,” he was becoming rather frantic, “I needed to pay her off or else… or else… oh, crap, but… I had to!”

Gabby startled. “Did you pay her off before or after the fire, Jim?” she inquired, her tone calming.

Silence. “I’d… I’d b-better not answer that without asking Danny first.” 

Oh. Holy. Shit.

Gabby leaned in again. “Okay, fine. That’s fine, Jim. Can I ask you something else? Since we’re, you know, all such good friends now?” 

She looked up at me. I nodded, encouraging her. 

“Who owned the other fifty percent of the Fernpoint? In the dossier, it was just an American corporation name, Brilliance Hotel Corporation, or something like that. I looked into it, and the registered agent is listed as CT Corporation, with a bunch of professional officers, no real ownership information.”

Again, he hesitated. His sigh came loud and crackly over the phone. “Bryce. Bryce owns fifty one percent of that company, and she owns fifty percent of Buckley Properties UK.”

My jaw dropped, and I could not stop my eyelids from fluttering up and down in shock. I exhaled, once, and I heard Gabby do the same. “Shit, Jim,” I breathed, “so what you’re telling us… what you’re saying to us right here right now, is that Bryce had two buildings go up in flames within the span of what, a fortnight? And she was the sole owner or at least the majority owner of both of them?”

“Yes.”

“So why the fuck are you telling us this and not going to the police, or to the insurers?” I stood and started pacing. I couldn’t decide whether the lump in my stomach was from anger or fear or whether the sweat on my brow was from shock or utter outrage. But there it was. “Why are you laying this in our laps? Why?”

“Because, Tom. Because, I….”

“Not bloody good enough! You know fucking well Gabby’s the lead investigator on your flat fire! She’s duty bound to follow up on what you’re telling us now! You’re digging your own grave, Jim! Why the fuck are you….”

He spoke over me. “Okay, okay. Tom, where do you send your rent cheques every month?”

“Why the hell do you want to know that? What’s that got to do with…?”

“You send them to B&D Property Management, right?”

I sat, slowly lowering myself back down upon the sofa. Gabby eyed me, quizzically. “Yes,” I said, breathing, calming. “Yes, that’s true.”

“B and D. Buckley and Delaney. We own your building. Bryce owns half, I own half.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Tom. Meaning, I… guess I… I just… I worry about your safety.”

***

I stopped at the HomeBase store on the way home from shooting the next day. I didn’t even take the time to shower after my work ended. So, I’d walked into the DIY store with my hair slicked down 1940’s style. I looked like a right idiot, but I didn’t care.

I had to get what I needed and there were reasons for the immediacy.

I’d picked up five lock-sets. There was one for the garden door (which neither of us used and was blocked by a hall table, but no matter), one for each of our flat doors, and two for the front door. 

Now, I realize that to change any of the locks on our building was a violation of the letting agreement on the part of the tenant.

But, then, so was arson on the part of the property management personnel slash my bizarre ex-girlfriend. 

So, yes. Jim’s phone call shook me. Along with other things I had on my mind, it jarred me, made me worry, which wasn’t a difficult thing to do. 

So, when Gabby came home that night, limping slightly on her still-healing stump, she came home to find me, thus:

“Damn! Fuck! Why won’t this stupid… stupid… stupid fucking thing just work?!”

“What’s wrong, love?” She stepped over my outstretched legs. I had my back to the door and was working two pieces of the lock, trying to make them fit together. “DIY problems? Need me to call Lawrence Llwelyn-Bowen for you?”

“I can’t get this,” I raised up the solid thruster thingy, whatever the fuck it was called, “to fit into that.” I pointed to the strike plate that I’d affixed to the doorjamb.

She bent over, inspecting my handiwork upon the door. “You changed all the locks?”

“Yeah,” I said, twisting the one twisty thing on the mechanism in my hand. “This is my last one.”

“You… changed the locks.” She said again, this time an affirmative declaration.

I stopped what I was doing and looked up at her. “Yes, I did.

She gave a half-smile. “Even the one on my flat?

I curled my bottom lip up and sucked air through my pursed mouth. “Did that one first.” I reached behind me, pulled a key out of the sack and handed it to her. “Here, new key.”

“What’s wrong with the one there?” She pointed to the empty cutout on the front door. 

“It’s a fucking deadbolt,” I said. “Damn the deadbolt. I hate deadbolts. I hate the need for them, I hate the way they work, and I hate the stupid-arsed design of them.” I lifted the lock and shook it. “So simple yet so fucking complicated.

She pulled her leg beneath her and sat, lotus position, on the floor beside me. “Can I see it?”

I handed it to her. “I mean, how hard could it be to line up the thruster thingy to go into the hole?” 

She smirked, looking down at the lock, and tilted her head. Damn her. “You don’t ever seem to have problems with that sort of thing otherwise.”

I laughed. 

Then she laughed. 

“You are a randy little shit,” I declared, swiping the lock back from her hands. 

She bent her leg at the knee and stood up, wincing slightly with the movement. “Finish up, come inside, and find out just how randy of a little shit I can be.” She slotted the new key into her lock, and turned the knob. I just gaped after her. Gaped, with my eyes wide, eyebrows arched and my gob smacked wide open. 

Gabby pointed to the strike plate on the entry door. “Besides, if the hole’s in the wrong position, it’s a lot harder to get the stick into it.”

She walked into her flat and shut the door behind her. 

I stood and inspected the door jamb.

“Fuck!”

***

After I’d readjusted things, I finished the work, cleaned up, and walked into Gabby’s flat, proud that I'd finally made the lock work properly. 

Only to find her sitting cross-legged upon the sofa, my iPhone in her hands. She looked up at me, her expression – strange -- I couldn’t read it at first. I’d never seen such a look cross her face, and truly, I never wanted to see it again. 

It was a frowning, jaw-tensed, glossy-eyed, chin quivering, eyebrow furrowed look of…

Jesus. No.

“What is it?” I rushed to her side, dropping my tools and the HomeBase bags upon the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“Your phone kept ringing and ringing,” she said, all too calmly, yet taking large gulps of breath. “I thought it might be Luke or your mother trying to reach you, so I answered it.”

“That’s fine, love. It’s okay. You can do that.” I sat down, taking the phone gently from her hands; her hands, which stayed curled as if still holding the device. I thumbed through the call log. It was a number I didn’t recognise. I looked up at Gabby. “Who was it?

“She didn’t say on the phone who she was,” Gabby said, mechanically. “She thought I was your personal assistant or something. She said she’d send you a text. She…texted you. Instead of talking with me, she texted you.” Gabby pointed at the phone. “So, Tom, check your fucking text messages, and then get the hell out of my flat.” 

 

She stood, quickly, and strode into the kitchen. 

I watched after her, confused as all... "What in the hell...?"

I lifted the phone to my eyes, scrolled to my messages, and began reading. “Oh my God. Oh, no.” I swallowed, quite hard, suddenly finding myself unable to breathe. “Shit.” I could feel my heart pound like a trapped animal against my ribs, against my lungs even, and my intestines tightened into a series of tiny, painful knots. 

“Gabby, please, I....” I threw the phone onto the sofa and bolted into the kitchen after her.

6:55 pm

07455 655 245

“Got your voice message this morning, lover. Will absolutely meet at place and time you said. Bring only your sexy self. Missed you and your kisses, Bryce.

***


	16. Tweet Twenty Seven

Direct Messages

17 July 

Tom Hiddleston: @twhiddleston: 07:45 am @gabbymaccfi. Gabby, I am so incredibly sorry. I have so much to explain. Please let me.

Tom Hiddleston: @twhiddleston: 7:48 am @gabbymaccfi. Listen, I need to go out for a bit, but I want to talk when I return. Please? 

Tom Hiddleston: @twhiddleston: 7:52 am @gabbymaccfi. I love you, and I'm so sorry. Please answer my texts. My calls. Here? Something? Please, say something.

Gabby MacKenzie: @gabbymaccfi: 8:42 am @twhiddleston. There's nothing more to say about it.

 

Why the fuck did Bryce have to respond to me by text message?

Why the fuck did Gabby have to see that bloody text message?

Why the fuck didn't I keep my goddamn phone in my pocket where I'd usually kept it?

Everything, everything was severely cocked up. Cocked up and it was all my fault, entirely my fault. I thought I could do these things on my own, that I could fix everything, that I could protect Gabby. But, no. I'd screwed it up in a colossal manner. 

Because I didn't think. Because I let frightened, reactionary, overprotective little brain get the best of me. Because I acted without thinking. Simple as that.

Bloody fuck arse... bugger... fucking fucking... fucking hell!

I paced my flat, my hands shaking, grabbing haphazardly at fistfuls of my hair, my teeth chomping upon my fingernails -- legs and feet striding from dining room to sitting room, back to dining room, kitchen, dining room, sitting room. 

A crippling wave of nausea drove me into the loo once, only to find me merely standing there, glowering at my hateful, rheumy eyed, disheveled self in the mirror... and to pace back out again. Pacing, pacing, pacing... stupid, stupid, stupid arse Tom, you are. 

I balled up my fists. I ran to my door and slammed them both, synchronised, into the chiseled oak. It hurt. Especially the left one. Good. I growled with it, feral. The door shuddered, as did the ancient walls around me. Little dust motes fell from atop the door jamb, floating down like teasing, taunting faeries around me.

I thought back to the bits of shiny dust particles in that tiny cottage Gabby and I shared for one glorious day in Scotland. When she... when she.... Jesus.

But no. Fuck me for an arsehole, a tit, and a stupid piece of shite. 

I'd ruined it. "Fuck, Gabby!" I screamed to the floor. I picked up a vase from my bookshelf and hurled it at the floor, grunting, tears falling, teeth bared with it. The crash, the noise, the destruction. All so satisfying. Little brain wanted me to throw a wobbly; it wanted a tantrum, and a tantrum it got.

"God damn it!" I bellowed into the air. I kicked at a broken piece of pottery, and it stabbed me in the toe, the bastard! "Ouch! Bugger!" I howled. "Damn you, woman!"

***

You see, she'd kicked me out her flat, Gabby did. She wouldn't turn round, no matter how much pleading, begging, grovelling, I did. She wouldn't look at me, wouldn't touch me, wouldn't even talk to me other than to say... "Get the fuck out, Tom. Go home. I can't talk with you right now."

"But, Gabby, please, I love you..." I'd grasped her shoulder, tugging slightly. 

But she was immovable, her hands braced upon the kitchen counter. "Not. Now. Tom."

"Gabby, you love me... tell me you... you tell me you love me." I demanded.

"Maybe it's all been too fast, Tom. All too fast, but I can't deny that I do love you." she'd whispered, her head bent. She coughed once, and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. "But right now I don't trust you. I don't... I can't trust you. You fucking lied to me, Tom!"

Her hands shook. "You've been seeing her." She'd whirled to face me, and poked me, repeatedly, in the chest. "You fucking phoned up your beautiful, exotic, hot, actress of an ex-girlfriend, for what, Tom? Sex? Obviously, sex, because from what you tell me, that's all you fucking had with her. Maybe you were fucking her already when you were in Ireland for all I know!" She stepped back, taunting me, tipping her head, damn her.

Damn her! Damn her and that head tilt. Part of me wanted to shake her, part of me wanted to take her, right then and there. 

I'm sure she saw it in my eyes. The longing, the anger, the lust.

"What's wrong, lover?" She'd mocked, "you not getting enough poke and tickle with me?" She shoved me, hard. I fell back, clattering against the cooker, huffing in pain as my arse hit the edge. "What's wrong, Tom? Not turned on by the plain girl with the gimpy leg anymore, huh, Tom?"

What the fuck? "Oh, Gabby, for Christ's sake. You know damn well that's not true."

"Do I?" She'd laughed, once, mirthless. "I'm not normally the jealous type, Tom, and you know... damn well..." she'd mocked me again, "I don't make snap judgments, but this? This, Tom. This really goes beyond the pale, it does." She turned away from me. 

"It's not. Let me just.... There's truly nothing for you to be jealous of! I'm not...."

She held up a hand, stopping me. "I need time. Get out. Now." She pointed over her shoulder to the front door. "Leave before I say something even more regrettable, because believe me. I'm very tempted to."

That anger, deep and wide, welled up within me. It hardened in my stomach, pressing up against my chest, invading my throat. My head hurt. My vision blurred. My hands itched. Damn it! 

"No, I won't leave. I. Will. Not. Leave. Not until we're finished here." I squeezed her shoulder harder, whirling her around to face me. I quickly shoved my hands into her hair, pulled her forward, and forced my lips against hers, my tongue licking frantically at her, seeking for some sign... of anything, from her, some signal that she'd forgive me, that she'd let me back in, that all would be well.

She gave me a signal all right. A clear one. And it was this:

In a swift movement, Gabby grasped my arm, twisted it, turned me round, and shoved my contorted limb against my back. She forced my hand up to my shoulder blade and my elbow she pushed into my spine. "We are finished here," she growled into my ear. 

"Aah, Jesus!! Ouch! Fuck, Gabby! That bloody hurts!" I bellowed with shock, with the pain of it. "Let me go!"

She pushed me bodily, easily controlling my movements toward her door. "Just get out!" She barked, but her voice wavered, a hitch in her throat. Still holding me painfully by the wrist, she opened her door, shoved me out into the foyer... 

...and slammed the door in my face.

"Oh, God. Jesus, no, Gabby, listen..." I slapped my flattened palms against the hard, splintery oak. I let my forehead fall... once, twice, three times, hard against the wood, my cranium hitting the solid surface each time with a sickening 'thunk'.

Right then, standing in that alcove, I'd so desperately wanted to explain everything to her. Desperately. More than anything I'd ever wanted in my life.

***

Looking over the detritus of my fury that littered my flat, I knew that I couldn't explain it to her. I couldn't tell her why I'd phoned Bryce Delancey that morning. I couldn't tell her what arrangements I'd made or the people I contacted or with whom I'd spoken. 

If I'd told her, it wouldn't have worked. Or so they told me. I'd already taken the first steps.

Well, I knew there was pretty much only one way I could get Gabrielle Leigh MacKenzie to trust me again. To prove myself to her. To win her back.

Part of me wished I'd never met Gabby, that I'd not taken those days off, or gone to the Starbucks for a stupid arsed coffee when I could have made one at home, or... or... lost my goddamn wallet. 

My wallet.

I ran my hands over my face, wiped away my tears, and steeled myself. I calmed, bending to pick up a shard of pottery. "Wallet," I said aloud. "Yes, fine. Well, Tom, you arsehole, you started it; best you finish it."

***

My friends, do you recall a few bits of this tale back when Gabby told me, jokingly of course, that I was a crap actor?

Well, in a way she was absolutely right.

If I had to fake my own emotions, if I had to come up with some little white lie, or try to convince someone that something was true when it was not true, or to cover up some secret, then yes, I was a crap actor.

I think if they gave awards for the worst liar I'd win hands down. I couldn't even lie to me mum when I was a lad about that time when I'd had a joint in my room at Eton. 

Of course, I was incredibly, incredibly high when the Headmaster caught me, but that's yet another story.

But, yes. I digress. Honest. Can't lie to fucking save my life.

I mean, how many times have you seen me bumble my way through an interview when I had spoilers to keep back? Or if an interviewer asked me to confirm or deny something which I was contractually bound not to reveal?

So, for me to do what I was about to do, it was not going to be easy, or simple; and could very easily have been disastrous, in more ways than one.

But on the other hand, give me a script, some lines to say, someone or something to imitate, or even just a character itself, or even better... a situation to improvise round, and I think I'm pretty decent at the craft.

In real life, I was a crap 'actor,' but if I were 'acting,' I could be brilliant.

And yes, friends, there is a difference.

***

I threw on a pair of old jeans, a gray t-shirt, trainers, and a black cardi, stuffed my iPad and some Clif bars in my rucksack, my wallet and keys in the cardi pocket, headed out the door of my flat and plodded down the stairs. 

There were two stacks of post on the table by the door. I nearly picked the both of them up, but then I'd remembered. I let my hand hover over Gabby's post....

Suck it up, Hiddleston, you've a thing to do. You've some creating to do. Someone to create. 

Get to work.

I scooped mine up and stuffed it in the outside pocket of my bag. I pushed the outside door open. As I walked through, the door handle caught on my cardi and I was unceremoniously yanked back. I swore, loudly, yanked at the fabric, nearly ripping it, to free myself. Cursing again, I trudged down the steps onto the pavement.

It was a crap day in London; cold, damp, foggy, dirty clouds set out against a gray sky. The streets were quiet, with only a scattering of people on the pavements and cars on the roads, typical for an early Sunday morning, with the exception of a group of tourists here and there, standing upon the streetcorners, struggling with maps and guides.

I ignored the pleas of one such group for help finding the Tube station; a hopelessly lost French family. I purposefully butted my shoulder against the young father as I passed, eliciting a host of curses in French, most of which I knew, all of which made me smile knowing that I'd been both source and target of such ire.

What a great way to start things off.

***

I exited the Tube station, emerging back out into the gloomy daylight. I hitched my rucksack on my shoulder and lowered the baseball cap further down upon my head. 

It took me precisely ten minutes to walk from the Tube to the theatre, and another two to walk round to the back entrance. I patted my chest, pockets, and belt to make sure everything was still in place, or... in the case of one thing, not in place. Satisfied, I unlocked and yanked open the door, took a deep breath to calm my shaking nerves, and walked inside.

I knew this place well, and even in the dark I could navigate it with relative ease. I'd chosen it for just that reason, and because I knew it would be deserted on an early Sunday of a morning.

Deserted in the truest sense of the word. No one was there. Someone would be close by, they said. They'd protect me, they said. They gave me strict instructions. They'd hear everything, they said, through the equipment they'd given me. They gave me a word to say if it all went balls-up; but I saw no one. 

They had set me up with what I'd needed to do this thing for them, this thing that I'd insisted upon doing, for me, for Gabby, but as far as I knew, I was essentially on my own.

They didn't think there'd be any danger. No need to worry, they'd said. Just get in there, talk for a bit, and get out. No danger.

Yes, my friends. If you hadn't sussed it out by now, I'd gone to the police. 

I'd finished my filming early the day before, and had gone straight from the shoot to the police station near my flat, and yes, before I'd gone to Homebase, obviously. I'd told them everything I knew. Told them about what I knew of Bryce, what I knew from Jim, and even some of the things I'd learned from Gabby. I knew she'd be furious at me for doing so, but her reports were already out, and it had to be done.

See, for while it's true that I knew nothing of Bryce's financial and business dealings; I knew first hand her penchant for violent behaviour. I'd worn an immense bruise in the middle of my back for two weeks the result of one of her outbursts. 

So, when she texted me to break it off, I'd been relieved.

But now, it seemed she was about her typical business again; and because of American corporate veils and other protections, as well as evidentiary problems, the police couldn't pin any of the recent mischief upon Bryce.

Yet, she had to be stopped before something horrible -- well, something else horrible, something horrible'd already happened with the hotel collapse -- before something truly horrible happened. Before Bryce did something else horrible.

Like, for example, take a can of petrol and a match to Gabby's or my flat.

And, my friends, that is exactly why the nice police DI on the arson squad had thrown out there that I should perhaps change the locks.

And yet, the nice DI thought I'd be in no danger today. 

Yeah.

I opened the doors to the theatre house, walked into the lighting booth, and turned the house lights up. I set the door propper down, keeping the heavy steel slab to the lobby ajar. 

They told me to create an easy exit, and to stick by it, should things go pear-shaped.

And before I go any further, my friends, I need to tell you that this is not one of those parts of my tale where I am sharing with you what it's like to be in the head of a fictional character. This is not a new film project. This is not Jack Randall or Frank Randall or Kurt Russell in Backdraft, or even James fucking Bond talking here. It's just me.

Just Tom.

Or, it would be the Tom I'd worked on creating on the way to this place.

Yet, I was slowly coming to the realisation that I was getting in way over my head.

What the hell was I playing at? Cops and fucking robbers? How did I get to this place? In this situation? Why the fuck did I agree to any of this? Would this all have happened if I'd never met Gabby? Perhaps, perhaps, but there I was. 

Not knowing what the fuck I was doing.

Bollocks.

I froze, froze, in a right swivet. My breathing became rapid, shallow. My pulse wouldn't stop pounding in my neck. Sweat coated my brow and the palms of my hands. I wanted to rip the communication device from my ear and chuck it in the Thames. 

Fuck. I couldn't do it. I'd explain it all to Gabby. Tell her it was just one giant mistake, a comedy of errors. She'd be rational once she calmed. She'd believe me. I... I needed to go. 

I had stage fright, for fuck's sake.

I turned to leave, to kick the door shut again and exit the theatre when I heard a voice from near the stage apron.

"You're late." 

***

Okay, then, so back to character. Couldn't back out any longer. It was the only way I could pull this off. So, my friends, while I wasn't working on a film that day, I was certainly going to have to work at my craft, and do it well.

Character equals: Place. Physicality. Voice. Sexuality. Situation. Motivation. Choices.

"You sent me a text, Bryce." I said, evenly, setting one Tom aside and picking up the psyche of the new one I'd just created. The character. The other Tom, I'll have you know, was scared shitless.

I let my rucksack fall to the aisle floor, and sat down heavily upon the velvet-covered seat, about halfway up the house floor. I wasn't going to go to her. I'd make her come to me. 

Place.

"You called me first." Her heels tapped, clickety-clack upon the rubber stair runners, sharp as her thick Upstate New York accent. 

"Not what I meant, bitch," I spat, hoisting my feet in the air and planting them down, hard, upon the seat back in front of me, crossing them at the ankle. "You sent me... a text."

Physicality.

"Oh, that," she pushed at my feet, moving them aside, and sat in the seat before me. She tilted her head and gave me puppy dog eyes. No effect. "No hard feelings, right?"

"Plenty of hard feelings," I replied, leaning back, putting my hands behind my head, "but that's not what I'm here about."

She turned in the seat, her skinny-jean and heel footed leg snaking up on the cushion. She gave me a cold, hard, once-over. "You look like shit, Tom."

"So do you," I retored. Actually, she did, compared to the fastidious woman I'd remembered. Her short, chemically straightened hair showed signs of twisty curl at the roots, her eyes were bloodshot, like a Christmas ornament set against the striking green. Her skin looked almost a shade of gray as opposed to a deep, rich, tan. "You in some kind of trouble or something?"

I asked that question as nonchalantly as possible. Voice.

She didn't answer. "We're not here about me."

I shrugged. 

"Listen Tom, you called me first, what do you want?"

I leaned forward, setting my elbows upon my knees, my face close to hers. "What do you think I want?"

Sexuality.

She sighed. I could feel her fucking breath against my cheek. I felt as if it were fetid and thick and sour, even thought it wasn't. I hated being this close to her, but I had to. 

Situation.

"You that desperate for a fuck, Tom? What happened to the crippled little fire bird?"

"Done with her." No, no I fucking wasn't. Not by a long shot.

"Jim tells me otherwise."

"Jim knows fuck-all about my love life, or about Gabby."

"I know a little something about her, you know," she said. "When I saw her in the Daily Mail with you, I did a little checking."

Checking... "Yeah? What do you know?"

"She's very wealthy."

"Really, Bryce," I rolled my eyes. "She lives in Chelsea and she drives an Audi for fuck's sake. Don't need to be a genius to figure that."

"Well, her financial portfolio is immense. Worker's compensation payouts. Pension. She's got a lot of insurance covering that apartment of hers."

Insurance... my stomach did a flip and my heart sped up just a bit. Bryce. Bryce... she's the one who'd run a background check on Gabby. And I thought I had just figured why.

"Yeah, so," I shrugged.

"Good money. Solid job. Just what a hard-up actor needs, right?"

I blinked. Hard up? I'd been working my arse off! Hard up?

"What makes you think I'm hard up?"

"Jim told me. He said he talked to you yesterday. He says you're pathetic, and that you're flat fucking broke."

Good on you, Jimbo. Good on you. Just like we talked about. Good man.

But I couldn't get too excited. Character, Tom. Character. "I've... I've made some poor financial choices of late, yes."

"Which, my little fuck beast," she chucked me under the chin, "is why you're here to see me today, eh?" She caressed my cheek, winding her fingers back into my dirty, unkempt hair.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps I want something else." I felt like I wanted to puke, but instead, I licked my lips and let my eyelids lower, ever so slightly. 

She lifted her chin and caressed her neck, showing off her deep purple shellaced talons. One was broken, the index finger, and shellac was chipped from the middle fingernail. Not like her at all. "Oh, so you do want to fuck me, Tom? Is that what you want?"

I touched her face. The skin was dry and a bit rough. It burned my fingers figuratively to do so, but I did. "If it comes to that, if I have to. Yes, maybe I will."

She leaned into my touch. "Okay," she said, cocking a half smile, "what do you want first?

"You own my flat." Motivation.

She didn't even blink. "I do," she said, plainly.

I twirled a bit of her hair between my fingers, keeping my eyes focused up there, petting her locks this way and that, playing with and arranging bits of her spiky, manky, cropped coiffure. 

"Gabby's moving out. She's been paying my rent for me, you see, and now that we're done, she won't. So, I can't pay it." I pulled my hand back and let my gaze fall, finally, to hers. I raised an eyebrow. "I need out of the contract."

Bryce's face hardened, her brow furrowed, and her lips stiffened. But then, her expression morphed. It twisted and turned into a visage of what... joy? Her smile became broad, her eyes wide. She reached into her handbag, and pulled out a hard plastic bottle. She shook it, and the contents sloshed within. The bottle gave off a slight scent of something volatile, like a petrochemical. 

"I have just the way, then."

Jesus Christ. 

Choices.

***

By now, my friends, I'm absolutely certain that you're sitting there, at your computer, or your iPhone, or your iPad, or tablet, or what have you, reading this, and thinking to yourself that Tom is clear off his fucking rocker.

You're thinking that none of this is true. That it's all utterly impossible.

You're thinking that I am completely and utterly full of horseshit. 

You're thinking that I'm taking the piss with you, teasing as I'd done all through this tale. 

You're thinking just now that I'd say, "ha!" and tell you what "really" happened, and all would be as it should be.

Well, I am afraid to disappoint. Remember, I am a terrible liar. 

Therefore, It's all true. Every bit of it. It truly happened.

I only wish it hadn't.


	17. Tweet Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in the Bluebirds story. I am posting a few one shots as additional chapters after this. Hope you enjoy them.

Tweet all/no replies

B&D Properties @BDPropertiesUK: Two Flat building in Chelsea for sale. Ready tenants. Contact Michael @michaelbdprops to enquire.

 

Now, my friends I love a good metaphor or simile just as much as a birthday kid loves cake; but cliche and I don't get along very well.

Yet, I can safely say that at that very moment, I was truly playing with fire. 

Bryce held up the plastic flask and sloshed its contents again. The vapour wafting from it was subtle, as if the flask had been designed to keep the permeation of scent to a minimum. The long, wide container looked as if it could have held about a litre of fluid, perhaps more. 

Bryce stood from her chair and walked around to the front of me, perching herself upon the chair back between my opened legs. She opened the flask. I was immediately hit with an overwhelming volatile odour that tickled the hairs of my nose. I flinched from it. 

Petrol. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was she playing at?

Okay. It's okay. Play it cool, Tom. Go with it. 

I lifted my chin and peered up at her. "What am I to do with that shit, drink it?" I laughed, waving away the vapours in front of my face. "It's absolutely minging. What's in there, meths? Or... is it something far superiour to meths, like, lighter fluid?" I grinned, "Even the wankers on the site won't drink that stuff."

She stared at me, blinking. Yes, I'd forgotten she was no fan of Richard E. Grant (as he had quite sincerely and very correctly insulted her performance with him in Cymbeline last year) so any Withnail references would have gone directly over her head. 

Which, in that case, it did. So much for lightening the mood.

"It's gasoline, Tom. Gas mixed with kerosene," she said, plainly, evenly.

"Kerosene... oh, paraffin, you mean."

"Yes, you dumb English shit."

"Fuck you, Bryce." I darted out a hand to grab the bottle, but she pulled it back. I wished the hell she'd close it. The vapours were going to my head a bit. "Fine," I said, "what do you want me to do with that?"

"You tell me, Tom. What would a desperate, lovelorn, out of work actor do with a flask full of gasoline when he can't afford to make the rent payments on his Chelsea flat, when his sorry little sugar mama is gone, oh, Lordy she's gone away, and and his big bad landlord is breathing down his neck, eh?"

I patted the back of my head and neck. "But you're not breathing down my neck," I observed, flippantly. She grinned me a Cheshire, stepped round my leg, into the aisle, and back behind me again. She perched her arse upon the edge of the seat, leaned forward, and nipped at my ear. It took everything I had not to flinch, not to shy away.

The character wouldn't shy away. Just the opposite. 

"I am now, aren't I, lover? Breathing down your neck?"

I shuddered. She mistook it for a shiver of pleasure, leaned forward, and licked the skin just at the apex of my trapezius. I shook again, morphing a groan of disgust into one of apparent sexual pleasure. "I... I suppose you are... er... love." 

She kissed my neck and dangled the once again closed (thank God) flask before my face, her arm draped perpendicular with my shoulder. Good job she was on my left side and not my right. She'd see. She'd know. "Why," I asked, "why do you want me to do this... this thing? Why should I?"

They, the police, had told me I should let her do all the talking; that I shouldn't prompt her too much or entrap her. Play dumb, they said. Well, it was a bit difficult for me to play dumb in front of Bryce; the woman who I'd beaten at chess once in three moves. She knew I was far from dumb.

"You need out of the contract," she said, evenly. 

"Yes, true. That's quite true. I can see that, absolutely, and I'd do it, but, why else? Why would you want your own building destroyed?"

"Let's just say, I've had buildings burn before... and the results have been quite lucrative."

"Lucrative? How? Don't you lose money?"

"Insurance, you fucknut. Yeah, I may lose tenants, or business or whatever, but if the building stops making money for me, or I have to do too much repair, like if it's old and decrepit enough...."

"Like," I said, in a hypothetical tone, "like an old Georgian building in Scotland?"

"You're catching on, lover," she replied. She stood, and I, in response, did the same.

I couldn't be in that seat any longer. I felt trapped. I needed freedom to move, to run, to fight. I sat down on an aisle step and draped my arms over my thighs, hands between my knees.

She followed me into the aisle, genuflecting upon the step behind me. 

"You know I was injured up there," I said, "I was there when the Fernpoint collapsed."

"I'm sorry," she squeezed my arm. "You weren't supposed to be there. I still don't know what you were doing there, you silly shit. Those charges were timed so perfectly, right on schedule, too."

I turned round to face her. "Charges?"

"Tiny bits of explosive set at strategic points in the building to take it down, to make it collapse, and, more importantly," she bopped me on the nose, "to cover up whatever evidence was left -- and who... whatever else -- that could pin the fires on me."

Holy shit. Holy holy shit. She did it intentionally. Caused not only the fire, but the collapse. Intentionally. With intent beyond mere destruction of the hotel.

I thought she'd meant to kill Gabby. She'd set, or had set those charges for just the time when Gabby was scheduled to do her evidence check. She'd have killed Danny. She'd have killed the other investigator. What was that? Collateral damage? She was fucking mad. Nutters. Sick as Hannibal, she was.

My breathing rate increased. I broke a sweat. My heart thrummed in my chest. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout out my outrage at her. No. No. No, I really wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and press my thumbs into her windpipe. I wanted to... I wanted to.... 

I wanted to find out. I didn't want to surmise. I wanted her to tell me what she'd done.

No, not tell me. Tell the police, through me. She needed to pay for what she'd done. 

"You know, Gabby was there, too," I noted, serenely, smoothly. "She was hurt, too." No emotion. Show none.

"I know she was. I expected her to be." she said, with a leveled measure of glee.

That bitch!!! Jesus, but I hoped the police were getting this. Arson is one thing but attempted murder is quite another.

"You knew," I confirmed, "you expected her." I let a hint of danger enter my words.

She sighed as if to say, "oh, you silly boy." She moved again, and sat on the step in front of me, legs crossed in a lotus position. She placed the bottle of petrol on the floor between the two of us. "Your gimpy little girlfriend...."

"Ex-girlfriend," I corrected.

"Ex-girlfriend." She picked at the label on the flask, leaving bits of paper scattered about the carpet. "She nailed it on the head with Jim's apartment building. Quite an expensive piece of real estate, that building. MacKenzie's good, she's really, really good. I tried so hard, to make it look like an accident. I read such explicit instructions on how to do it. I made sure to pour on a piece of furniture, I tried to keep it off the floor, but it sloshed around so much!"

Holy shit, she was giving me a confession. Right there, right then, and the police, again, oh God I prayed hopefully, the police were catching every word of it. 

"As soon as she gave her report to the police, I knew they'd pin it on me. CCTV would have shown me coming in, going out of Jim's place, my building, carrying things, and with Jim on holiday, I was the only one in and out of that place."

"I still don't understand why you torched Jim's building to begin with!"

"I owned it! Jim wasn't paying me! It lost me money, Tom!" she said, her voice increasing in volume. "I lost hundreds and thousands of pounds of money. Ever since I fucked up that deal in Leeds and it made the Financial Times, and then the Mail picked it up, and the Sun, and every other fucking news outlet -- now no one will do business with me!"

I swallowed, body still, listening, not moving. Rapt attention.

Then she peered at me, almost child-like. "I can't sell my properties, you see? I can't lease them out to anyone, even with the shell companies and the other precautions." She shrugged once, let out a mirthless chuckle. "Anyone who does their due diligence will trace things back to me! I've been blacklisted!" She sighed, her breath vibrating with tension and fear. "I can't even get work in movies anymore. Because of my shit decision making, I fucked over people like Brad Pitt and Lindy King and Theirry Fremaux!"

She lifted the container with a shuddering hand and unscrewed the top, setting the lid on the arm of a chair. I stiffened, instinct making me prepare for fight or flight. She continued talking, however. "I make more money with the places torched than if they were still standing." 

She scooted forward onto her knees so she sat directly in between my legs. She lifted a hand, slowly, and traced her finger around my left ear. I shuddered again, harder this time. "Lloyds of London allows for very high limits and is very, very generous, and very, very, quick to pay claims these days. With the laws here in England, I can get paid more than the buildings were even worth!"

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ in a glass beer bottle full of petrol and paraffin with a dirty rag stuck out the top and chucked into a fucking shattered shop window in the middle of the Camden Town night.

Do I ask it? Do I go there? Would I screw it up if I did? I had to.

"So," I leaned into her touch, pretending to enjoy it. I wanted to come off as thrilled, sexually, by what shed said. Jesus, I hoped I could do it. 

"So," I breathed, she brought her hand to my lips. I kissed them, licking at the pads of her index finger, trapping her hand with my own. "What you're telling me is that you, you beauty, you torched Jim's place and the Fernpoint for the glorious insurance money?"

"Yes."

I grinned, lasciviously, running my hand down her bare arm, eliciting gooseflesh. "And when that bitch MacKenzie pegged it as arson, you arranged to have the Fernpoint collapse atop her and kill her so she couldn't testify against you?" I laid my hand at her hip and squeezed. Christ, she was disgustingly bony. "That's brilliant. Listen. My flat? I'll do it. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I can finish what you'd started."

"I thought you were a nice boy, Thomas; but you're so very correct, all of it, all of it," she moaned when I placed a long, lingering kiss upon her cheek. "I never knew you had such a nasty streak in you."

"Then your memory of me in bed is quite poor, love." I licked her earlobe. "Perhaps you need a refresher fuck."

With that she bolted forward and grasped my head on both sides, tugging me toward her into a kiss. Her lips felt thin and lumpy compared to Gabby's. Everything in me, even little brain, everything I was wanted to fight her, to push her off. She repulsed me; but I had to turn my hate into something else. 

I had to act. I had to be an actor.

And I did, I did act. I thought of Gabby and I acted as turned on and ready to fuck as I'd ever been -- until -- until she brushed her hand over my right ear. Her hand stilled, the finger probing at the device inside my aural canal.

She dug her thin fingers in and swiftly plucked out the earpiece. I clapped a hand to my ear. Shit! She held it to her eyes, inspecting it. 

Shit. Oh, shit, Shit, she'd found it. What was that safe word again? Jaybirds? Oh, shit!

She kept turning the device around and around in her fingers, contemplating it, as if she were appreciating the design of it. She didn't immediately say anything. She pulled back and simply stared at me, her irises hardening into a ring of true peridot. Like a stone. Like an angry, bright, faceted stone set with a deep, black, circle of obsidian in the centre. She breathed, hard, fast, rapid, shallow, while she peered at me, sussing me out. 

I just sat there, frozen. 

"You're wearing a fucking wire, Tom," she whispered, preternaturally calm. "A wire! Who's out there? Who's listening to this?"

"Bryce," I said, sympathetically, placing my hands upon her shouders. "You knew it would come to this eventually."

"No!" She screamed, standing, her fists balled at her side. She threw the earpiece to the floor and stamped upon it, crushing it with her heel. "No it won't!" 

In a flurry of movement, she grabbed me by the collar and pulled, bringing me to my feet. There was a whoosh of air from the side. She screeched, her fist flying with it. "Aaaahhhh!"

My jaw exploded in pain and blood filled the side of my mouth. "Ah, fuck!! Jesus Christ! Aaaah!" I retched bile and spat, the massive glob of red and green splatting upon the rubber runner. 

I bent double and pawed at the side of my face, the pain blossoming exponentially across my cheek and my neck. 

Whilst I was bent over I heard a pouring sound, and then the sensation of a was a cold, wet, liquid spreading over the back of my cardi. It seeped in through the fabric and stung the skin beneath. I straightened up immediately, clawing at my back. The redolent reek of petrol permeated the air around me, like a cloud of noxious vapour. "Jesus! Bryce! What the hell have you done?"

I turned and watched as she poured the rest of the petrol upon her own body, upon the floor, and sprinkled the last bit upon the theatre chairs.

The stinging on my back grew worse and worse. I ripped my cardi off and threw it to the ground, but my t-shirt was still soaked with the reeking stuff.

"Bryce, no." I threw myself at her, trying to tackle her to the ground, but she dodged. I missed. I couldn't see properly. My eyes were a fountain of tears and my nose and mouth itched with the fumes. I moved to wipe my eyes, but my hands, my arms, everything was covered in petrol. "Fuck, Bryce, wait...."

Having petrol poured on you is bad enough. Watching helpless as the person who poured the petrol upon you raises a modified Zippo lighter into the air, her thumb over the flint wheel... well, that's got to be a prominent feature of one of Dante's circles of hell. 

I'd seen what fire could do to a body. Jesus, now on top of the stinging and the pain in my jaw and the horrible fumes, my heart was banging out a military tattoo against my ribs again. The sweat on my forehead mixed with the petrol in my hair, stinging my eyes. I couldn't see.

I was scared out of my mind. This was scarier than when I'd been held at knifepoint in Kentish Town. Jesus Christ. My brain started to shut off. Even little brain was of less help to me now. I needed help. 

But no one had come. They must have heard, but no one had come.

Maybe no one would come.

I had to man up. Hand to force myself to think. I had to handle this the best I could until someone did come. 

As much as Gabby was happy and a survivor even after suffering the wrath of fire, I still did not want to go through what she had. What's more, as much as I disliked Bryce, I would never wish death upon her, especially a death by immolation.

"Bryce, please. Just put the lighter down, okay?" I could feel the shake in my voice. I couldn't control my body. My hands trembled, and my feet barely cooperated with me. I wanted to scream for help but I knew that would simply set her off.

And she would set the fire off.

And I couldn't charge her. I was too far away, and I knew full well she could turn the flint before I reached her. I had no other way to stop her.

We were at a standoff.

"Bryce, love? Please."

She didn't answer. She lowered her hand.

"Bryce?" I tried a firmer tack. "Come on, love, give it to me. Now."

"Give it to me now, Bryce," she mocked me. "That's what you always used to say, isn't it? Give it to me now."

"Yes, Bryce, it is." I nodded, rapidly, "and maybe if you give me the lighter, you can make me say it again."

She lowered it yet another inch or so. I took a step. She held up a hand to stop me. "No closer, Tom."

I backed away, raising my hands in the air. "Okay, no closer, fine."

She lowered it yet again. "I can't go down for this," she said, matter of factly. 

"I know you don't want to. I know you don't."

"I won't." Another lowering. Now the lighter was held at her hip. 

A slight disturbance, a small shadow on the floor near the stage apron caught my eye. It looked like a dark ghost, moving quickly from one side of the aisle of seats to the other. 

Someone was in here with us. Oh thank God. Oh Jesus, someone was in here with us. They came. Well. someone did. I raised my eyes and sent up a silent prayer that whoever it was, was on my side. 

I kept my eyes focused upon Bryce. Last thing I wanted to do was to call attention to whoever my -- hopefully - my saviour was.

Because I wasn't going to be able to get out of this on my own.

I felt a shadow in the door behind me. Bryce's eyes left mine, perking to look over my shoulder. "Police!" 

I turned, and saw a figure silhouetted in the outline of the house door, backlit by the bright lobby lights. "Put your hands where I can see them!"

My hands raised, I turned and started walking up the steps. The police officer had a pistol and it was trained in a general direction down the aisle. "Out of the way Mister Hiddleston."

I inhaled, and caught another new whiff of petrol. My nose had become accustomed to it, but more had been added, or stirred up, perhaps. I whirled around to see Bryce pelting up the steps toward me. The uniformed policeman yelled, "Freeze!"

But she didn't freeze. She stopped on the step above me, turned around, and wrenched my neck into the crook of her arm and elbow, trapping me in a bony, yet very strong choke hold. She held the lighter up, close... very very close to my face. 

"Get back or he goes up in flames."

Fuck! Playing with fire, indeed.

The officer, who I'd now recognised as Jonathan's partner James, took two or three side-steps into the theatre, his gun lowered. "Let 'im go now, lass. We don't need to be doin' this now, do we?" He holstered his gun. "Come now, gimme the bitty lighter, there, and we'll all go an' talk about this peaceful like."

She gripped me tighter. I tried turning my head. My hands scrabbled and scratched at her arms. The high angle she had on me, standing one step above, was to her distinct advantage. I couldn't reach her hair to pull on it. It was too short. I couldn't grasp at her clothing, she was wearing a sleeveless vest. 

Her arm exerted an upward and inward pressure against my hyoid bone, crushing it hard into my windpipe. 

I couldn't breathe. 

My mouth opened and closed on its own, my body struggling like a fish from water, desperate for the smallest breath of precious air. When I did manage a breath it was redolent with petrol and other poisonous fumes. 

My vision, already hampered by petrol-laced tears, closed in, darkening at the edges, little sparkles of light dancing in the space directly ahead. My head started pounding, the pain becoming excruciating. 

I heard James yelling somewhere in the far, far, very far distance. Heard him bark out orders, and call for back up, and bellow at Bryce. I heard the distant sound of a flint striking steel, and the slow-growth poof of a small flame.

Bryce tightened her grip round my throat once more. I let out a rather unmanly squeal against it, my fingers and fingernails losing purchase on her forearm. 

I felt heat near my feet, and then... "aah!" and then the sweet sensation of release. 

She'd dropped me. Or someone made her drop me. I instinctively crawled forward, away from the heat, toward the light, sucking in great, long, draws of air, toxic or not, and my lungs burned from it. My forehead and eyes throbbed. I kept crawling, crawling, until I was dragged by my oxters by a pair of strong hands. 

The strong hands turned me over, patted me on the cheeks, "Tom, Tom. Hey, Tom, wake up," and suddenly I was looking into the welcoming brown eyes of Jonathan MacKenzie, in full turnout fire gear

"Hey there, arsehole, you okay?

"I... I think so." I sat up, leaning forward into my hands on a wave of sick and giddiness. "Or I will be okay once I puke."

Jon smiled and gave me an emesis bag; into which I proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach. He handed me a towel and I wiped my face. I handed him the bag and the towel, feeling and probably looking very sheepish. "Thanks," I said, weakly.

"Better now, mate?" He held a water bottle to my lips. I drank gratefully and deeply.

"Ah," I swallowed, "Much better, thank you." I looked around. "Where... where's Bryce?"

Jonathan knelt beside me, laughing. "Look."

I peered up, blinking wildly to regain focus. I saw Bryce. She was alive, that was good. But she didn't look happy. I saw Bryce with her arm and wrist twisted in an unnatural position against her back, the back of her hand held against her collarbone, and her elbow dug hard into the small of her back. She was held in place against the wall.

Heh, I knew what that was like to be held like that. To be held in place like that.

Held in place against the wall by Gabby.

"Gabby!" I croaked, my throat still not working correctly. 

Gabby turned, winking and smiling at me before she turned her attention back to Bryce. She relinquished her prisoner -- said prisoner's shirt, hair, and half of her jeans burnt to a crisp -- over to the green-suited paramedics and to James, standing nearby. 

"Gabby! Oh, God! Oh, God, Gabby." I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh or cry. I suppose I did a combination of both. I laughed, as I sat there, covering my face, but my tears flowed absolutely unbidden. Tears streaked down my face, the saline burning as it mixed with the petrol still soaked into the skin. 

I stood and started toward her. My legs wobbled and nearly gave out. She rushed toward me and caught me by the shoulders, holding me up. "Tom," she cried, her own tears flowing. She helped me to stand, and led me toward the front of house wall. She sat me back down against it, and joined me upon the floor.

She sniffed. "Oh, you bloody fucking idiot, Tom."

She knelt in front of me. Her hands flew everywhere on my body, patting me, checking me for broken bones, or whatever. Just touching me. She was just touching me and with every touch I felt new. Renewed. I felt healed. Felt wonderful. "Gabby, I'm fine, really. I'm fine."

She looked down at my shoes. "Your Chucks are burnt."

I wiggled my toes. They stung a bit. "Looks that way. I think I may have some burns on my feet, too. It hurts."

She laughed through her tears. "You got off lucky, you stupid shit." She caressed my face, my hair, running her hand down over the back of my neck. "Very lucky."

"I guess I did." I smiled, whispering.

"I guess you did." She leaned into me, touching her lips to mine, the touch becoming an embrace, a slow, loving, gentle, affirming pressure upon both of my lips, swollen as they were. I felt her sigh into me. Yet, when she inhaled, she froze, pulling back. She squinted and pulled her mouth into a moue of disgust.

"Ugh, Tom. Dude. You're filthy and you smell like a petrol station."

I leaned in to kiss her again. "Just like you. Welcome to my world, love."

***

"You'll have to change his bandages once every two days, use the silvadene creme, and call if there's any more sloughing. I think it's fine, but we may need to do one more debriding."

Gabby nodded. "Thanks, Doc," she smiled down at me, "anything else?"

Doctor Rajash smiled. "Keep your butt away from fire for a while, yeah?"

I groaned. "Good advice, that, Doc."

"I'll be here all week," the doctor winked. He handed a sheaf of papers to Gabby, pointing to one. "He may have some pain, there's a writ for some pain medication, but I think he'll do fine with just some Boots paracetamol."

We gave our thanks to the good doctor, and he took his leave, closing the curtain behind him. I shifted uncomfortably upon the examination bed, trying to find the best position to place my burned foot.

"Ouch, damn it all. This fucking hurts!"

Gabby nodded slowly, her eyes wide and her lips pursed. "Tell me about it. You got very, very lucky."

Apparently, when Bryce had dropped the lighter, the petrol on the carpet caught fire, spreading to that which soaked my left shoe. The material on my shoe caught fire, in turn, and left a rather nasty second degree fry up upon the skin the outside of my foot and my heel.

Gabby squeezed my hand. She turned away for a moment to dig in her handbag. She came up with my Burberry wallet. "Drop something?"

I smiled and took it back from her. "I'm so, so, very clumsy that way, aren't I? Always dropping my wallet and things. So very clumsy."

"I found it outside my door this morning."

"Yeah? Really?" I batted my eyelashes, innocently.

"I almost threw it in the trash."

I laughed, "I'm sure you did."

"But then I thought of how we'd met. I thought about meeting you at Starbucks and how insane you were, and how adorable I thought you were, and how you were so incredibly attentive, and sweet and... well, just that bit of sexy."

"You... you thought I was sexy?" I grinned. 

"You know I did. You know I do." 

"So," she said, "as I was saying, I thought about all that, and I thought, maybe I'd acted too hastily. Maybe I needed to let you explain to me what the fuck that goddamn text was all about," she shot me a glare that made me flinch, "maybe... maybe I did act like a jealous bitch, and I hated myself for it."

"Gabby," I said, soothingly. "I'd have reacted the same way."

She tilted her head, beaming a smile at me. Damn her. I'd missed her. I twitched in a place it was entirely inappropriate to twitch whilst wearing a hospital gown. Jesus.

She continued, handling the wallet, demonstrating as she went. "Well, then I opened the wallet, and it was empty. Well, that was weird, I thought. Why would Tom leave his empty wallet in front of my door? So, I dug around in it a bit and found this." She lifted out a small, folded piece of blue paper. My writing paper. She unfolded it, carefully, and read,

"Dearest Gabby, I've done something quite mad, I think, and it may not turn out well. What I've done is dangerously idiotic and I only hope I can disentangle myself from it. I hope this task will serve to repair your trust in me. It has to. So, if you've no word from me by nine this morning, please ring up James immediately. Tell him I went to the Donmar. My life or my health may depend upon it. All my love, Tom."

She folded it back up and inserted it into the wallet, handing it back to me. "Here you go, you great big stupid lovely, lovely man." She leaned over the bed. She ghosted her lips over mine, licking at my bottom lip with her soft, warm tongue. I groaned against it, and she pulled back, licking her lips.

I grinned, broadly. Happily. "You're not going to make me identify myself again for this? Give you my full given name? My driving licence number? Actor's Equity card number? Mother's maiden name?"

"Nope. I know who you are, and I know this wallet belongs to you."

"Although," I said, shifting in the bed again. "I think I will have to buy you a coffee yet again."

"Why's that, love?"

"Well, once again, you've saved me from a fate worse than death. I mean, before, you saved me from the ghastly horror of having to cancel all of my credit cards and other wallet ephemera. Now, you've truly saved me from death itself."

"Well," Gabby sat down upon the bed beside me. "I think we owe each other a coffee." She let her body fall upon mine, and I encircled her in my arms, planting a kiss atop her head. "I think, what you did today," she touched my face and looked up into my eyes, "it was incredibly brave."

"No, I wasn't brave," I admitted. "I was frightened within a second of my life."

"Brave," she repeated. "Very, very brave, and I am incredibly proud of you."

I puffed my chest out a bit and gave a closed-lipped, high-boned smile. "Brave, I like that."

She rolled her eyes and held up her hand, ticking fingers from one with the index finger of the other, "Well, let's add idiotic, barmy, daft, a bit reckless, and very, very, very stupid!" She slapped me upon the shoulder. "You could have been killed, you arsehole! I was worried fucking sick over you, you big twat!"

"Ow!" I rubbed at my bicep. 

She bent and kissed me where she'd hit me. "Who ever said bravery isn't stupid." She rubbed my arm. "That was brilliant leaving me your wallet, though. I called James and he said you'd talked, that he gave you a name to talk with over at arson, but he didn't know anything had gone down." She shifted upon the bed, bringing her right leg up against my left. 

"James checked into things after I'd phoned him," she said. "He and I went to the station and found that they were indeed listening and recording everything that was said, but they truly didn't think you were in any danger. Therefore, no police presence there. James listened for a bit, and when he heard the device go dead, we -- James, Marcus, and I scrambled to get there. We phoned Jonathan on the way here."

"Why is Jon still here? Shouldn't he be back in Bristol?"

"He transferred to London so he could be near James."

"Oh, that's brilliant," I said, wincing. 

"Foot hurt?"

"Yeah." 

"Want to go home?" 

 

"Quite badly, and I'm thankful we still have a home to go to," I sighed.

"It's all to you," Gabby said.

"It's all to us."

"I've an idea," she smiled.

"What's that?"

"Let's buy the place. With Bryce in a world of financial hurt, we should be able to purchase it for peanuts."

I grinned. "What a wonderful, wonderful idea. Let's do it."

 

Just then my iPhone rang. Gabby fished it from my jeans pocket on the side table. She handed it over to me. "It's Luke."

I cringed. I was in for it. I held the phone to my hear. "Luke, mate! What's up?"

His tirade started swiftly. It was loud, boisterious, full of the most unmentionable words ever... I even think he said 'cunt' once, maybe twice. He sounded angry, and full of worry. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. 

Gabby heard him, and laughed. 

And from the expression on the nurse's face when she pulled the curtain back, she'd heard it to.

"He sounds a mite brassed at you," the nurse observed. "You'd better set him to rights." She turned to leave and said, over her shoulder. "And do it quickly, Mr. Hiddleston, he's disturbing the other patients."

***

22 July

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Finished work on a grand project. Looking forward to the next. Spending a quiet today w/a loved one. #loveyourlife #lifeislove

I popped my index finger down upon the mouse with a flourish, clicking the "tweet" button and letting my twitter followers know a tidbit about my life that, for the best of me, I still couldn't suss why they'd find it interesting at all.

I still hadn't really mentioned Gabby on Twitter, but our relationship would soon be public, if it wasn't already. We'd be attending a premiere the next week-end, and the world would get to meet her. Besides, an astute Twitter follower could easily suss out who she was and what she meant to me. It was there. 

Anyway, I didn't care if they knew. I fully intended on keeping her. I wanted her in my life for the entire rest of it. My fans and supporters, those Hiddlestoners, loved them... they would treat her kindly, I was sure of it. But the timing had to be right.

My desk chair creaked a bit, straining under the shifting weight as I leaned back in it, kicking my feet upon an open bottom desk drawer. I peered down into the drawer, reached in, and drew out the script of Hamlet that Kenneth Branagh sent me. 

I'd always wanted to play the Dane. I finally had my chance. On film. With Kenneth Branagh directing. And I was thankful for it. Incredibly thankful for all of it.

I pushed myself up from the desk chair and limped into the sitting room, my foot still quite sore, still stinging from the burn. I found Gabby curled up on my sofa, reports, photographs, charts, and spreadsheets surrounding her like a nest.

"Gabby, love. Would you be a dear and help me with the Hamlet and Ophelia scenes again?" 

She stood, waggled her eyebrows, and took the two steps to close in to me. She splayed her hands upon my chest, and tipped her head up at me... and then tilted it slowly, seductively to the side. 

Damn her. Damn damn damn her! 

She drew a finger over my bottom lip, touching the moist skin inside near my teeth. I sighed into it, lowering my head to gently touch my lips to hers. 

She spoke against my mouth, her breath tickling the small hairs of my fledgling beard. "We went over it all yesterday, love, but if you end up throwing me about the bed and kissing me the same way again," she said, giving me a gentle lick, "then that's an absolute yes."

Gabby plucked the script from my hand and sauntered slowly toward the bedroom, her hips swinging, singing Paul McCartney, softly, to herself.

"Touch your lips with a magic kiss...And you’ll be a bluebird too...And you’ll know what love can do...."

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ with Yorick's skull stabbing through the arras on the wall with a poisoned fencing foil. 

Holy Polonius, Horatio.

***

FIN

For now. :)


	18. Something Blue - One Shot

A/N. This is a Gabby and Tom one shot that’s been brewing in my mind for some time, but it doesn’t work chronologically with the story arc in Bluebirds. It takes place about a year in the future after the planned ending of Bluebirds. Since I’m stuck on that one, I thought I’d work this fluffy one out of my brain. There may be more one-shots after this, and perhaps even that’s how I’ll continue the story of Tom and Gabby. 

Okay and with the time change, I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up late working on this and got it done sooner than I’d thought. Yeah, I’m mental that way. 

Thanks again for your support and your feedback! It’s so appreciated!

Fluff ahoy!

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6 June

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Life is full of surprises — moments of sadness, moments of pride, and moments of intense joy. Live it to the fullest. #loveyourlife #bigthingscoming

 

A world record was set. I wanted to call out the parades, bang the drum, and play upon the fife and the trumpet. My sisters were shocked, my dad offered to take me down the pub for a pint, and my mum was thrilled. 

For you see, I, Tom Hiddleston, playboy (ha!) actor, Film Magazine’s Sexiest Man (ha, ha!), and People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive (Oh, ha, ha, ha, haaaa! My God, what?!) had been in a serious, loving and monogamous relationship with a woman for more than one year. WooHoo! Yay me!

I’d come close to a year, you know, once. That relationship having broken off a mere six hours before the anniversary, but that wasn’t my fault. It was the fault of my RADA flatmate for fucking the brains out of said girlfriend whilst I was at rehearsals for another student’s showcase. Six. Hours.

And now you know why I once had romantic trust issues.

But those are gone.

Because of Gabby.

Gabby MacKenzie, Londoner by way of Chicago by way again of London. I had met her just over a year ago. I dropped my wallet on the pavement, she found it. I bought her coffee, she ignored me. I showed her my weaknesses (which were many) and she showed me her strengths - she’d lost a leg and suffered massive burns to her back in a firefighting accident that had once left her physically and mentally scarred, but later made her stronger. 

Yet, she still showed me from time to time that she needed me, that she needed to lean upon me, figuratively, emotionally, and literally.

I so loved that about her. 

I emerged on that June day from the gloom, stench, and artificial light of the Tube into the joyous late afternoon sun reflecting off of the buildings and pavement at Sloane Square. It was one of those rare, nearly cloudless, warm London days well worth savouring. I closed my eyes and turned my face up, taking in the sunshine. I inhaled deeply and let myself experience the scents of summer, flowers in the corner shop, warm air, and freshly baked bread. The pure sensory combination as I walked from the station home gave me a spring in my step.

But that wasn’t the only thing to give me a spring in my step.

Gabby had been in Darlington all week, working on a series of investigations to do with a petrol refinery fire. A huge fire, on an immense piece of land, with hundreds of potential causes; so every inch of that scene needed combing through and cataloguing in great detail. 

My Gabby. Ex-firefighter, engineer, fire investigator, lover of long progressive rock songs and Sam Shepard plays. She worked so incredibly hard, was so dedicated, and so brilliant at what she did, but for that project, she was finished for a time. And she was coming home that evening.

I walked up the front steps, opened the door to our building (and it truly was our building since I’d purchased it nine months prior after a rather large studio paycheque) and collected the post from the side table. I flipped through the envelopes, finding one for Gabby from the States, jammed them into my bag, and opened the door to what had once been Gabby’s flat when she was my downstairs neighbor.

Walking in, I still sometimes had to gaze in wonder at the bespoke work my sister, Emma’s boyfriend had done with the place through his contracting company. That is, until I remembered how large of a cheque I wrote the man when it was completed. Gabby and I moved out of the building for four months whilst the contractors gutted, demolished, and rebuilt our two flats, combining them into a single living space for the two of us. 

Talk about commitment. I couldn’t have been happier.

I was in the downstairs kitchen, mentally running through my lines for some reshoots of Hamlet whilst starting a light dinner of leftover cooked chicken breast and salad greens. I was mid-soliloquy when I heard the front door open. Gabby’s distinctive footfalls reverberated through the tiled entryway.

I grinned like a madman just anticipating the sight of her. 

I heard another, smaller, door open, and then a series of grunts, pulls, thuds and thumps as Gabby removed her tool belt, bag, boots and work clothes. She hung them in the “yuck closet” she’d insisted on building to store her fire scene clothes and tools.

“Those fire scenes,” she had once said, “they’re full of toxins and smoke and ash and spoilt things and dead things and other nasties. We should defo build that,” she’d pointed to the architect plans, “unless you want me traipsing soot and cyanide upon that white carpet you insist we get.”

I did take a moment back then to ruminate on just where she’d kept her “yuck clothes” when were were living in our separate flats… but then I decided that, actually, it was best that I didn’t think on it.

I heard her uneven footsteps behind me on the hickory wood of the kitchen floor. With her prosthetic leg, it sounded like one silent, stockinged foot, and the other sounded of coated plastic upon wood, which, in essence was what it was. I turned and beamed my best charming smile at her over my shoulder. “Hello, love. Welcome home.” 

I held a handful of cherry tomatoes under the tap. “Hello to you.” She slinked up behind me, her hands reaching beneath my oxters and snaking upwards, her palms flat upon my pectoral muscles. She squeezed me gently. “Honk, honk.” She laughed and I could feel her smile and her kiss against my back. I set the tomatoes back into the bowl, wiped my hands on my jeans in my haste, and turned to embrace her. 

I kissed her, solidly and soundly, my still damp hands grasped at her neck and shoulders, and upwards to cradle the back of her ponytailed dark blonde head. I was this close to grinding my hips, and my burgeoning erection, against her, when my nose was suddenly assaulted by the combined scents of smoke, motor oil, grease, dirt, and petrol. 

Why did it always have to be petrol? 

“Ugh!” I recoiled.

She tilted her head at me, her smudged up but adorable face questioning.

Holy shit but it made me so aroused when she did that. All this time and that one stupid gesture and her big brown eyes still turned me on to the point of nearly making me go Neanderthal. 

Except — when she smelt of petrol. 

I scrunched up my nose and waved my hand in front of my face. “I adore you, but you’re foul, love.”

“I’ll hit the shower in a ‘mo.” She grinned and chucked me under the chin. I immediately went back to my work preparing the food, for any other purpose but to get my mind off one of my favourite visions… that of a very dirty Gabby getting clean, and again very dirty, in the shower. 

“There’s a letter in there for you from Chicago.” I advised her, turning and pointing to my rucksack with the paring knife. “It has some sort of seal upon it so it looks important.”

“It’s from the Fire Department, where I used to work when I lived in the US.” I watched her open the letter. “I’m not sure why they’d be writing to me now…” She read it, her eyes got very wide. She looked up to me. “Do you have anything on your calendar for next week?”

I thought about it, my eyes rolling up and to the right as I pictured the layout of my iCal in my head, visually going through the snapshot of the entries in my mind. “Nothing that I can’t move around if needs be,” I replied. I wiped my hands on a tea towel, walked over to her, and peered at the letter from over her shoulder. “Why?”

“It looks like we’ll be going to Chicago.”

***

Well, as it was, the letter was the announcement of and invitation to the retirement gala for Gabby’s old mentor and good friend, Mike Devermann; and there was no way in this God’s green Earth that Gabby was going to miss that party.

It was early summer in Chicago. I’d never been to that City and I was excited beyond excited to see it, looking forward to the high rise buildings, the brownstones, the lake shore, and most importantly, the strangely topped and loaded up hot dogs.

After we arrived, we spent half a day in our North Shore hotel in preventative sleep against some of the jet lag. The first night we ate an early meal at an amazing bistro in Lincoln Park, and took a short walk around one of the city’s prettier neighborhoods. Gabby made sure to walk me past the ivy covered walls of Wrigley Field, from where I heard the sounds of the great American pastime being played.

“I spent so much time in the bleachers in that place while I was here,” she said, wistfully.

I blinked, dubious. “I never knew you were a baseball fan.”

“I’m not,” she admitted, grinning shamelessly. “I was more a fan of the beer and the food and my friends from the station than the baseball.”

“Was your station near here?”

She nodded, and pointed in the direction of a complicated looking six-way intersection. My eyes widened in shock and just a little bit of terror. Seeing an intersection like that without a roundabout gave me a case of the panics. I was more than glad that we’d decided not to rent an auto. 

That being said, I nearly screamed as I jogged across that horrid intersection, Gabby dragging me by the hand — and against a bloody red light no less. You could tell Gabby had a good kinetic memory when it came to navigating these streets. I was happy to have come out of there alive. We walked about another half kilometre, when Gabby stopped before and pointed to a large, brick buidling with an immense drive up. “Station 191,” she said, quietly, sadly, nervously. “My second home for three years.”

I placed my hand flat upon her back and rubbed, calming and reassuring her. I kissed her on the top of her head. “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

She inhaled deeply, steeling her resolve. She reached behind and took my hand. “No,” she said, nodding her head resolvedly. “I want to.”

***

It was a good thing we did. A group of firefighters were inside, playing a raucous card game at an old aluminum and lino kitchen table. When we came in, our footsteps reverberated upon the tile floor. All heads turned and stared. 

After an awkward moment, a loud, hearty laugh cut the silence and echoed, booming around the large, open space.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? If it isn’t little Miss Bloody Hell!”

Gabby grinned like a shark and stepped forward. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Old Man What the Fuck!”

One older, burly, graying, grandfather type of a man stood from his chair and approached Gabby with opened arms. “Gabby Babby,” he embraced her, and then held her back at an arm’s length, gazing at her, “let me have a look at you.” The man looked down at her prosthetic leg. A wistful, regret-filled expression flickered across his features.

But then he smiled wide and pulled her in again, hugging her, quite paternally. “You’re as tough as always, aren’t you? You sure haven’t changed a bit, has she, Jimmy?” He moved to her side, patted her on the shoulder, and turned her to one of the other men seated at the table, who shook his head in agreement. 

“Hi, Mike,” Gabby said, blinking, her eyes misting, “it’s so good to see you.” She squeezed him, one-armed, across the shoulders again, just a little bit tighter, nostalgia and love writ large upon her face.

I swear I saw a tear or two form in the canthi of Mike Devermann’s eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here, Gabby.” He patted her shoulder again, fatherly, lovingly — with intense pride. He looked away, the tears coming in earnest now. “So glad you’re here.”

The rest of the introductions were made, and Jimmy informed me that I was privileged to meet some of Chicago’s finest firefighters. One younger man asked me to sign an autograph for his son, which I gladly did. I took photographs with a probationary firefighter named Jessie Lynn who I swear had a blue Avengers S.H.I.E.L.D. tattoo on the inside of her forearm. 

I loved my job.

Before we took our leave, it was established that Gabby would assist with the final preparations for the retirement party gala in two days. Therefore, the next day, I was to be left to my own devices with a new city to explore and an entire day in which to do it.

After blueberry crepes for breakfast early the next morning, I kissed Gabby goodbye in front of the hotel door. “Meet me in our room at half five,” she instructed me, checking her phone. “Mike wants to take us to Gene and Georgetti’s for dinner.” She gave me a peck on the cheek, and a full on kiss on the lips, her hand upon my chest. ”Chicago steaks. Best in the world. You’ll love it.”

***

I spent a good ten minutes with the concierge, a very friendly fellow named Seth Michael (pronounced, Michelle, oh, yes…), who gave me a plethora of maps and brochures for touristy type attractions such as the Lincoln Park Zoo and the John Hancock Center, and the Wendella Boat Tours, and the Water Tower and the like. After some deliberation, I decided, instead, to start my tour of the city with a simple yet long walk up Michigan Avenue. Seth told me that the stores and shops along this boulevard could be found anywhere in the world, but that the Chicago flavour was writ large upon that stretch of pavement. He called it the “Magnificent Mile.” 

And, apparently it was. I took a taxi — more than a mile — as far south as a street called Madison, where there was some very interesting architecture. Very square, very neat, very utilitarian, very “big shoulders.” I was fascinated by the mere simplicity of this city. North streets went due north, south streets went due south, and the entire city was laid out on a near perfect grid. If you knew where the Lake was, the driver of the yellow taxi told me, you could find practically any place with relative ease as long as you had a street and a number.

Such a refreshing change from the winding, crazed streets of London for a visual learner like myself. Living here, I could have memorized this map in an instant instead of having to keep my constant reliance upon the A to Z in London.

I continued north along Michigan, walking under an extremely noisy elevated train that felt as if it shook the pavement beneath; a strong, industrial smelling whirlwind of air gusting it as I passed. I couldn’t help but crane my neck upward at it, watching the sparks and gawking like a schoolboy on his first trip to the Tower of London or the Shard. 

Further north and over the river were the shops. I continued past more historic buildings — one rather regal edifice belonging to the Wrigley chewing gum company (Oh, I thought, that’s where that came from…) and a Trump building and buildings for a number of television networks and radio stations. I was almost caught up by one of those “roving reporters” on the street outside the NBC station but I managed to dodge that bullet. 

I felt a little guilty for that. It could have been some free publicity for the mini-series. But I wasn’t here to work, and nothing had been vetted by my publicist. Luke would have strung me up if I’d done an impromptu interview outside his knowledge.

As I passed the shops and varied restaurants, I let my pace slow. Up near a street aptly named, Chicago Avenue, I caught the strangely out of place whiff of animal. I craned my neck to look around a group of shoppers coming out of a Saks Fifth Avenue store. There, on the corner, was a line of horse and carriage teams, with an equally long line of tourists waiting for what I surmised was a sightseeing ride. 

Not exactly screaming “Chicago,” history wise, but novel nonetheless.

I heard the sound of a church bell from somewhere across the road. Startled, I glanced over to the other side. I didn’t see a church. But, rather, my eyes lit upon a very distinct and well known storefront.

And an idea popped, fully formed, into my head. A silly, mad, nutty, barmy idea, but an idea nonetheless. There it was, and I had no choice but to act upon it.

Tom Hiddleston, you’re a genius you are.

***

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Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: The Windy City is not very windy. Discuss amongst yourselves. #Chicago #mykindatown 

***

The next day, before the Gala, Gabby and I did some of the activities that Seth Michael had recommended to me. Even though Gabby had done each of these things numerous times, she was game to repeat them with me, wonderful woman that she was. To wit, we did the following:

a) We took the Wendella boat tour up and down the river and out into Lake Michigan. 

“This is a lake?” I’d asked Gabby in disbelief.

“Yes,” she giggled, “of course it’s a lake, we’re nowhere near the ocean!”

“But it looks like the ocean, it’s so… so… expansive!” I was utterly dazzled by the sheer size of it. But then, it was America.

b) We visited the Willis Tower. Whilst standing in the elevator, an older fellow tapped me on the shoulder. 

“Are you English or something?” He asked, not threateningly, but not friendly either.

I replied. “Why, yes, yes I am.”

He nodded at me, trying to look serious, “It’s still the Sears Tower, you know, and no matter how much you Brits want to call it the Willis Tower or whatever, it’s still gonna be the Sears Tower, got it?”

I nodded, sagely, “Got it.”

Out on the Skydeck, I managed to walk out into that little room with a glass bottom. Gabby stayed back, her acrophobia writ large. 

c) We ate lunch at a place called the Billy Goat Tavern. Decent burgers, bottomless soft drinks and chips, and strange people; but someone at the Willis Tower told me the place was quintessential Chicago so we went with it; and

d) We took a short walking architectural tour around the south Loop area and learned all there was to know about the Burnham plan and exactly why the City was so wonderfully geometric. 

At the end of the long day, we cleaned up, spent some Tom and Gabby time together in the shower (oh, how I loved getting Gabby in the shower; especially when it was my job to place my hands upon her chest and my hip against her bottom to help her balance upon her one leg), and dressed for the evening.

Gabby had taken her Chicago Fire Department dress blues out of storage before we left and had them cleaned and pressed. She was no longer a firefighter, but since she left due to injury in the line of duty she was still entitled to — and that night was required to — wear them. She had carefully and reverently put them on — a crisp, white shirt, a tie, a dark blue fitted blazer adorned with medals and badges, and a knee length pencil skirt — with her silicone prosthetic and a pair of nice, sensible heels.

My woman, my Gabby, in uniform. If I had been prone to I’d have swooned.

She tugged at the jacket, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t worn my Class A’s in years. They barely fit me.”

“You look breathtakingly strong and brave, and for lack of a better word, dashing, love.” I placed my hands upon her hips and brought her close to me, angling my head to place a kiss on her lips, avoiding the gold and white cap she wore upon her head. “You,” I said, kissing her again, “make me so proud to be by your side.”

She straightened my bow tie and smoothed down my tuxedo jacket collar. “And you, you gorgeous, handsome, actor you. You always make me proud to be by yours.”

I offered her my elbow and she accepted, placing her hand in its crook. She picked up her pocketbook, and we exited our hotel room. The Gala was downstairs in the Grand Ballroom of the hotel. There were some photographers and paparazzi waiting for us in the lobby.

Someone had tipped them off that we were here. That I was here, but that was fine. I’d taken Gabby to premieres and films and award shows over the past year so our relationship was no secret. Gabby and I stood for photos for a few minutes, responding to “Tom, over here!” and “Gabby, smile for me, please,” and the like. 

In a rare moment, I was more than happy to be standing there letting the photogs snap away, more than happy to let them ask their questions. I adjusted my jacket near the wing pocket. I wanted to remember this night for the rest of my life, and I hoped and prayed and hoped and prayed again and once again that Gabby would too.

She smiled at me, tugged on my arm a bit and said, “Let’s go in.”

***

Now I knew how Gabby felt, attending my film industry events chock a block with Hollywood luminaries and reporters and my own famous co-workers. A fish out of water, swimming upstream and yet anchored to the one person in the room that she knew well, that being me. Granted, after a short time she had met hundreds of people and could hold her own socially, but still, there’s a strange feeling in the pit of the stomach being the only person out of place.

In my case, the room I tried to navigate was full of firefighters, high-ranking police officers, Chicago aldermen, Illinois legislators, and other local dignitaries. Even Mayor Rahm Emmanuel, who I’d recognised from the Barack Obama campaigns, was in attendance. 

Bloody Rahm Emmanuel, oh my fucking god. I was in awe.

For once, I, and not Gabby, was starstruck. The Mayor had an extremely firm handshake and looked me straight in the eye. Admirable. ”I’m a fan of your work, Tom. You broke my heart in War Horse and my wife thought you were brilliant in that Henry V thing you did for PBS.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Thank you very much.” I nodded, respectfully.

After meeting Mayor Emmanuel, I slowly came to the realisation of just how important Mike Devermann, and by association, Gabby, was to this great City. I mean, for the Mayor of Chicago — a vital member of the Chicago political machine to attend a retirement gala was truly something.

Cocktail hour ended, and we sat down at a circular table near the stage for dinner. Conversation went from reminiscing about Gabby’s days on the brigade, to Mike waxing nostalgic about his own firefighting escapades, of which there were many. I listened, intently, to the stories, eager to learn more about Mike, and more importantly, about Gabby. We talked at length about my own career, and Carol Devermann, Mike’s wife, was particularly interested in getting any information she could from me about the Scottish mini-series I’d filmed a year back.

“You know I’m all but sworn to secrecy, Carol,” I’d replied, covering her hand with mine, ”but let me say that a well-read, lovely, and sensitive young lady like yourself will absolutely enjoy it when it comes out. I’m sure of it.” That made Carol smile and fan herself with her napkin. 

Gabby grinned, eyed me from the side and licked her lips, knowingly, as if to say, “Stop it you great suck up.”

At a lull in the conversation, while the Fire Department Pipe Band played a short set, I looked around the room. It was a sea of blue uniforms and white caps hooked from the backs of the chairs. Two tables over, I saw a pair of young people, about twelve and fourteen, a boy and a girl. They only caught my eye because of their quiet, polite demeanour and the fact that they seemed to be there without their parents. Themselves, fish out of water, like me. 

I wondered about them a bit, but before I had the chance to think further, Mayor Emmanuel took the stage, and the proceedings began.

I paid rapt attention, listening and applauding as dignitary after dignitary — including Gabby — came up to the podium and “roasted” Mike Devermann. When that was done, there were presents given, mementos and plaques awarded, and then the kilted pipe and drum band skirled up once again for a short set.

I looked over again and saw that the two kids were no longer at their table.

Mike took the stage again, and after a short speech, introduced the two kids as Natalie and Cole Johnson. Gabby looked at me, and I at Gabby, and she shrugged, confused. She had worked on the evening’s agenda the day before.

“I don’t recall this being on the programme.” 

Cole approached the podium and spoke, quietly, yet eloquently. “When we were kids, four years ago, our momma and us, we lived in the projects. There was a fire one day and we, me and my sister, we were pretty scared. We didn’t know what to do, and we couldn’t find our mamma, so Natty and me, we just hid in momma’s closet.”

Gabby gasped and blinked. ”Gabby? You okay?” I said, questioning. I placed a hand on her shoulder. I looked at her and she was staring at Cole, her brow furrowed, licking at her dry lips.

And then it dawned on me. Jesus Christ. I felt my heart sink and flutter simultaneously.

For you see, when Gabby was injured, she had just rescued two children from a closet on the first floor of a high rise. A minute after she brought the children outside, fumes from a meth lab down the hall ignited, sending a fireball down the hallway, the shockwaves sending heat and brute force smashing into Gabby’s body, breaking it. The blast took three of her friends with it, killing them instantly.

Cole continued. “I heard yelling and someone said the fire was out. I came out of the closet and there was this lady there, this pretty lady dressed like a fireman and she picked me and my sister up — and my sister was hurt bad — and she took us outta there and told us we were gonna be okay, that everything was gonna be okay. And we were. We were safe and we were fine and we’re alive, thanks to that pretty lady. And then we heard she was hurt, and Natty and me were sad and we never found out who she was until now.”

I heard a sob beside me, and Gabby was full on crying. Carol moved over by her side and had started rubbing Gabby’s back. Gabby looked up again, her eyes full of tears and her mouth agape. She covered her face with one hand, and grasped at mine with the other, the emotions getting the best of her.

Then Natalie spoke, reading from a note card. “On behalf of kids everywhere in the City of Chicago, on behalf of me and my brother and my momma, and on behalf of the Mayor of the City of Chicago and the City Council, we want to present….” she paused, as Mike handed her a small, blue velvet box, which she opened and showed to the audience. Inside was a blue-ribboned medal in the shape of a Celtic cross. 

“… this Medal of Valour to Retired Firefighter Gabrielle MacKenzie.”

Gabby sat there, unmoving, unbelieving, staring. She swallowed once, took a shaking breath and stood. I stood with her as she reached for her cap and set it, almost mechanically, upon her head. I walked with her to the stage, and sent her up the stairs with a kiss on the cheek as Mike met her at the top, hugging her there.

Yes, my Gabby. Holy shit, but Gabby — my Gabby — was being given one of the City’s highest honours.

I put my hand over my heart to calm it. I couldn’t have been prouder.

***

Gabby and I both were in a state of perpetual, yet hidden shock for the rest of the evening, exchanging looks and smiles here and there. At one point, Gabby said to me, kissing me on the cheek, ”Knowing how this feels, Tom, just imagine what it will be like for us when you win a BAFTA or an Oscar.” 

Gabby spent a great deal of time sitting at our table, intently conversing with Cole and Natalie. She learned everything she could about the two kids and exchanged contact information with them, smiling with them until their guardian picked them up and took them home. As Natalie was walking out the door, hand in hand with her guardian, she turned, tears in her eyes, and ran to Gabby, nearly knocking her over. Gabby bent and gathered the willowy girl in her arms and held her, tightly, until the Guardian caught up and with a smile, pulled Natalie away.

Gabby stayed on her knee for a moment, her head bent. I reached down and helped her up. ”You okay?” I asked.

She stood and leaned against me. “Yeah,” she replied, “yeah, I’m just that much overwhelmed.”

We took our leave, Gabby exchanging a long and emotional goodbye with Mike. “Promise to keep in touch Little Miss Bloody Hell?” Mike joked.

“Of course! Hey! Come to London, Old Man What the Fuck,” she replied. ”Now you’re retired you’ve nothing else to do.”

We walked out of the ballroom, hand in hand. Gabby headed toward the elevator, but I pulled her in the opposite direction. “It’s a nice night,” I said, “let’s get some air.”

The evening had been amazing. 

I was about to make it that much better.

I hoped.

***

We sauntered south, from our hotel, down along Michigan Avenue. The street still blazed with light and bustled with people, the shops open late, even at this time of night. Tourists walked hand in hand or arm in arm, laden with shopping bags and rucksacks. Groups of teenagers, some in formal dress, walked in packs and groups, the corsages on the girls’ wrists leaving a trail of sweet scent in the warm, humid lakeside air.

“Prom,” Gabby observed. “They’re just from prom and they’re probably headed somewhere for a late dinner.”

“Ah, yes, Prom.” I observed. “That distinctly American rite of passage where rich parents get to spend a metric fuckload on a dress and jewellry and red-bottomed shoes for spoilt girls and the boys have to fork out their own money to rent their tuxedoes.” 

Gabby smacked me in the shoulder.

“Cynic,” she said.

“Not often, you know, but I do have my moments.” I chuckled.

I looked up. Our destination lay just ahead. When we arrived, I stopped and swooped Gabby up, holding her by the torso beneath her arms. “Tom!” she cried, out, grasping at me, ”what are you doing?”

I lifted her, turned her, and placed her, gingerly, into a white carriage decorated with silver organza and blue tulle. “Evening, Mr. Hiddleston, sir,” came a voice from the driver’s seat. 

“Evening, Charlie,” I replied. I reached into my trouser pocket and surreptitiously handed Charlie the number of American fifty dollar bills I had stashed away. I climbed into the carriage after Gabby, who was still standing, her head at a confused tilt.

Damn that tilt. I grabbed her face and kissed her, heartily and thoroughly, couldn’t help myself. “Tom! What is all this?”

I sat down, and pulled her down beside me. “It’s a carriage ride, love.”

She blinked, looking around and taking in her surroundings. She quirked an eyebrow at me. “That’s an awfully touristy thing to do.” 

“Well,” I replied, “you’ve been doing touristy things with me all weekend, and after all, I am a tourist, so… why not?”

She hunched down into the seat, unable to formulate a response to that. Charlie turned in his chair. “Michigan Avenue or Lake Shore Drive, Mr. Hiddleston, sir?”

“Charlie, please. I told you before. Call me Tom.” I put my arm around Gabby’s shoulder. “And this is Gabby.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Tom,” he replied, and then looked to Gabby. He tilted his hat to her. “Miss Gabby.”

Gabby looked at me, incredulous, and then back at Charlie. “Nice… uh… nice to meet you, um… Charlie.” She looked back at me again like I was some kind of madman. She leaned in and whispered, “A carriage ride? Come on, Tom, you’re never one for this kind of silly frip and foppery, what are you on about?”

I called up to Charlie, “Lake Shore Drive, please, sir.” The driver made a ticking noise with his mouth, snapped the reins, and the carriage took off. I whispered back to Gabby. “It’s nothing, love. I just thought we’d take a nice, romantic ride around the city, beautiful evening and all. Something we wouldn’t normally do.” I turned my head so she couldn’t see the nervous grin forming on my face. 

I took a breath, turned back and pulled her closer. She took off her hat and placed it in the seat beside her. She snuggled in to me, finally accepting, and sighed. I kissed the top of her head, and she lay her hand upon my chest. “I’m so bloody much in love with you,” I confessed, whispering, ”so in love.”

“I love you, too, Tom.” I felt her smile against my chest, just above her hand. I felt her fingers wiggle, ever so slightly. “I can feel your heart beat,” she observed, “it’s pounding.”

No small wonder it was.

Charlie stopped the carriage in front of a small park just off Lake Shore Drive. We had a view of the glistening lake to our right and a view of the cityscape to the left. It was breathtaking. It was Gabby’s favourite city and her second home.

And it would be a place I hoped I’d remember for the rest of my life.

I gently moved Gabby off of my chest, and sat, facing her. I took her hands in mine and brought her attention to me. “Gabby,” I said, quietly. She looked at me and tilted her head again. I squeezed her hands. “Christ, you know how much it drives me mad when you do that. I love it when you look at me like that.”

She blushed and looked back up at the skyline, her face turned to and relishing the light breeze flowing toward the water. She sighed.

“Gabby, look at me, love.” She complied. “You getting that medal tonight, I can’t tell you how proud I was of you, to watch you with those kids, to see all those people… you were, I think, given a great honour tonight.”

“Yes, I was,” she replied. She caressed the side of my face, gently, with her fingertips, “but I was more honoured to have you by my side.”

I inhaled and made a clicking noise with my mouth, twisting the corner of my lips. “See, now, there’s the thing. You’ve been given this amazing honour tonight, been given something that will stick with you and be a part of you for the rest of your life, yeah?”

“Yeah…” she intoned, “so….”

“Well,” I said, stroking my chin, “not to sound like a selfish prat, but don’t you think it would only be fair if I had something to honour me tonight? Something that would stick with me and be a part of me for the rest of my life?” I raised my eyebrows and blinked, owl-like.

She quirked a smile. She knew where I was going with this. She knew, and the city lights sparkled that much brighter off the growing sheen of her eyes. “Yes, it would only be fair,” she agreed.

“Okay, then.” I nodded once, sharply, and showed Gabby my ‘serious Tom’ face. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small item, which I concealed in my hands. She watched me, her eyes now filled with tears, darting back and forth between my face and my hands; and then to my legs, which were off the seat, in genuflection upon the carriage floor. 

She covered her mouth, gasping and sobbing at the same time. She gasped again, and covred her face. I pulled them away. I needed to see her. ”Don’t hide from me,” I pled, “please.” She nodded, unable to speak.

I opened the small, greenish-blue box decorated with a white ribbon that came along side what I’d purchased the day before. I adjusted my position on the floor, and showed Gabby the contents. Her eyes got wide and, I think, she forgot how to breathe.

Yes!

I took the ring from the box, held it before her left hand, and took the plunge.

“Gabby, will you give me the great honour of being my wife? Will you stick with me and be a part of me for the rest of my life?”

She nodded, and helped me put the platinum and diamond confection upon her finger. With an uncharacteristically girlish squeak, she grasped me around the shoulders, and threw herself into my arms. I fell backwards, off balance, and was spread pell mell upon the carriage floor. 

I nearly fell out the other side. 

The horse must have spooked a little; the carriage lurched.

Charlie said, ‘woah.’

And I almost hit my head on the side of the door.

Gabby and I laughed, uncontrollably, crazily, and completely. I got my legs under me and rose up, standing, and helped Gabby up by her hand and hip. She laughed a little more, and then grew suddenly quiet, held as she was tightly against me. She was warm and solid and soft in my arms, and I was transported. I heard her sigh, happily, as she let her weight sink into me. 

“So, is that a yes?” I whispered, brushing a wayward piece of hair from her face. 

She tipped her head up just those few millimetres, bringing her eyes in contact with my eyes, and then her lips to my lips. “Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure.” I bent down and kissed her neck, just behind the ear. I brought my face back in line with hers, smiling like a loon. “Absolutely, positively sure.”

“Then,” she kissed the end of my nose, “that is absolutely, positively a yes.”

***

Tweets all/no replies

LaLaVidaLoki @lokidadoki: @CarriageChicago. Is that @twhiddleston in the picture on your engagements page? #pleasetellmeitisnt #pleasetellmeitisnt

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @lokidadoki @CarriageChicago. Yes, it is. Yes, it bloody well is. #happiestmanontheplanet #thankyoucharlie


	19. Blue Highways - One Shot

A/N: Here's another Bluebirds one-shot. This one takes place right after and intertwined with the events in Something Blue. The name of the story comes from the book of the same name by William Least Heat-Moon.

You may also want to read Something Blue before you read this one. This is one more set of episodes in the lives of Tom and Gabby. Story about the trip, not the destination. You get the idea.

A little funnier, a little sexier to start. Enjoy and thanks again for reading!

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15 June

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: Song of the Day. Indigo Road, by Ronn McFarlane. Perfect music to motor by.

 

I did it, I actually did it, I actually fucking went and did it!

I was elated and happy and ecstatic and I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. 

At the same time I was scared shitless. 

I mean, before the last two days, the thought had barely crossed my mind. Well, I can't say that, because it did, once in a while.

I'd thought of it sometimes when Gabby angled her head at me just right and the light shone off the corner of her eye just like that; or when she made me laugh, or when she would get angry at me and her nose would flare. 

Or when she'd come home filthy and greasy and smelling like a campfire and she'd tell me all about the cool fire engineering-ey things she did and found and discoveries she'd made.

Or when she'd listen attentively to my prattling on about Shakespeare and this director and that actor or my work and would run lines with me and help me relax at the end of a long, rough day of filming or public appearances; or celebrate with me when I'd be given plaudits or awards or good reviews.

Or when she'd take off her shirt and cuddle beside my own bare torso, the radiant heat from her burn scars seeping through into my own flesh; or when I felt compelled to trace the edges of her tattoo with my finger. 

Or when we made love -- slowly, deliberately, lovingly, worshipfully; or sometimes very, very heatedly and very, very naughtily. 

Ok so yeah, I guess I'd thought about it a lot. 

So, two days before, I'd spotted that Tiffany's storefront across Michigan Avenue in Chicago whilst on my walking tour. Two days prior, driven by an insane, mad whim, I had crossed Michigan Avenue at the next intersection, and walked into the store. 

Two days prior I'd agonized for a good hour over my purchase, and finally, with some help from a very attentive shop lady, I walked out with a Tiffany Legacy platinum diamond engagement ring with graduated side stones nestled comfortably within a little pale blue box tied with a white satin ribbon. 

The diamond wasn't overlarge. My initial instinct was to purchase the largest gem I could find in the store to dazzle upon Gabby's finger. I had the means, and money was no object. I was looking at a display full of three, four, and six carat diamond rings, and had nearly purchased an immense one right in the front of the case. 

The sales lady, bless her heart, changed my mind.

"May I ask, Mr. Hiddleston, what your intended does for a living?" The lady, called Maria, had asked, noticing my increasing level of anxiety.

"She's a, uh... fire investigator." I'd responded, running my hands through my hair. 

"Ah," she intoned, "does she work with her hands a lot? Get dirty?" 

"Yeah, she does," I laughed, "all the time."

"Does she wear work gloves?"

"She has to," I replied. "Both leather work gloves and nitriles."

Maria nodded, sagely, and directed me to another counter. "Follow me, Mr. Hiddleston," she indicated. 

And she showed me the perfect ring. A sensible, yet large carat weight of diamonds, with a respectable centre stone and additional stones spread out in decreasing sizes over the top and sides of the setting. It dazzled and sparkled and bloody well took my breath away.

"I'll take it now, please."

It wasn't a bespoke ring, as I'd fantasized about giving Gabby, but it was beautiful, it was from the heart, and she loved it. 

And that's all that mattered.

Well, that and it was from bloody Tiffany's. How romantic am I? Tell me. Yeah, oh yeah, I knew I was. Da man, as they said in Chicago. Da. Man. Ahem.

And now that I'd asked Gabby to wed, that ring was set upon Gabby's finger, and there it would stay, until death do us part.

Gabby and I walked slowly, her left hand in my right, back under the lights of Michigan Avenue to the hotel. I couldn't help myself but fiddle with the ring, to feel it's solid, cool weight, and the diamond... the diamond upon her finger... the diamond that was eternal, unfailing, unerring, absolute, and perfect.

Now, at this point, I could say something like "just like my love for her," but you'd think me barmy.

But it's how I felt, so bugger off.

Back in our room, Gabby sat upon the bed, staring at her left hand, her thumb adjusting and moving the ring around upon her finger. She looked up at me. "I can't believe this, Tom. It's all so beautiful. All of it. You're too bloody good to me, you know that? You are."

I just smiled and sat beside her, pulling my unknotted bow tie from around my neck and tossing it upon the telly stand. I unfastened two buttons of my tuxedo shirt, spreading the fabric apart and relishing in the feel of cool air upon my skin. I took her left hand in mine and kissed the back of it, and then set my lips on the ring. 

"It's all but mad, I know." I said, giving her a goofy grin. "Ah couldna 'elp meself. Ah lurves yer, and Ah warnted yer ahll ta meself, ye see?"

She laughed at my silly accent, and then sighed, her glorious smile beaming like rays of sunshine (yes, my friends, you just shut up, now!). She leaned into me, setting her head upon my shoulder. We stayed that way, silent, listening to the ceiling fan whir in the half-darkness of our hotel room, for quite some time, until Gabby stuck her finger under her shirt collar and scratched.

"Itchy?" I asked her. She nodded. "Here, let me." I grasped her blue silk tie and slid the knot open. She sighed again, looking down at my fingers when I unhooked the top two buttons of her white shirt. She looked back up into my eyes, hers sparkling with mirth and a little drop of mischief.

And she quirked a little lopsided smile, raised an eyebrow, and angled her head, ever so slightly to the left. Damn her. Damn her damn her damn her.

I moved swiftly. I took her head firmly between my two hands, pulled her to me and kissed her, hard. She reciprocated in kind, grasping the back of my head, blunt nails digging in, her lips moving unrhythmically and haphazardly against my own, seeking almost desperately and finding what it wanted, what I happily gave and took in return. 

My hands moved, seemingly of their own volition, lower and lower. One hand dipped down, reached up beneath her still-buttoned coat, nearly yanked her shirt from the waistband of her skirt, and sampled the varied textures of the skin it found there. She moaned, sighing into my mouth against it, driving me on. 

The other hand sought its own pleasure in the gap beneath Gabby's slightly spread thighs and her skirt. I, in my turn, growled low in my chest with the sensation of her soft skin against my fingertips, her soft lips against my own, and the anticipation of what was to come.

She pushed gently against me, breaking the kiss. "I can't be getting all naughty like this in my Class-A's, Tom," she said, panting. "It's... it's not... it's not proper."

"Well," I said, fingering the brand new blue-ribboned medal attached to her uniform coat, "perhaps I should give it the honour it deserves, and take it off you."

And so, my friends, I did. And she let me. Slowly, carefully, I skimmed my fingers over each bit of newly exposed skin as I worked, removing her uniform at a deliberate pace, sometimes following the touch with a light kiss or a languid caress of my mouth and tongue. 

Piece by piece, button by brass button, each item in turn I put upon a hanger or a shelf; polishing the brim of the hat, brushing off the sleeves, straightening the medals, smoothing out the skirt and the tie, and shaking out the starched white shirt...

Until the brave, proud uniform was put away neatly in the wardrobe. 

Until Gabby stood before me in naught but her very soft and very lacy and very very pretty pale pink underthings and her sensible heeled shoes. Suddenly, my tuxedo jacket sat very heavily upon my shoulders and, more importantly, my trousers quite rapidly became a size too tight.

"Come here," she said, crooking her finger at me. "It's your turn."

Jesus Christ on a Chicago style hot dog with mustard and green relish and celery seed and for fuck's sake, do not, I repeat, do not hold the goddamn hot peppers.

***

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Slap, slap, slap, press, silence, growl, grumble.

"Ahhh, crap."

I took a deep breath, yawning, working my eyes open as the rest of my body caught up in wakefulness. I raised my head from beneath the pillow and chanced a peek at the clock. 6:30 AM it read.

What the fuck? "Gabby," I groaned, "did you set the alarm, love?

Gabby moaned and rolled over to face me. "Yeah," she said. She sat up, tousling her hair and scratching at the bare skin beneath her right breast. "We've somewhere to go today." 

I wracked my brain trying to think of what we'd planned. "But it's Sunday, love. We've no plans for today. We don't leave for home until Wednesday."

"We do have plans, I just haven't told you about them yet." She bent over, kissed me, and gave my pectoral a slight squeeze. "It's a bit of a surprise for you."

Damn. I hated surprises. I hated secrets, and I was crap at keeping them and crap at having them kept from me. Truly, it was the worst part of my job, having to keep projects and films and things I was working on a secret. I wanted to shout that stuff from the rooftops. At the same time I always wanted everything revealed to me immediately, so this was going to be painful.

"Surprises suck," I groaned, raising my head up and banging it back upon the pillow.

"Deal with it you great baby," she said, pinching my nipple.

"Ouch, fuck!" I slapped at her hand, playfully. "You wee bitch," I laughed.

"You love it, arsehole," she giggled, "like I love you." She bent and kissed my skin, licking where she'd tweaked me, and I moaned with the sensation of it. "Get up, then," she said, patting my stomach, "we'll be getting the car in an hour."

My eyes got wide, and I quirked an eyebrow. 

"Car?"

***

Yes, my friends, car, as in auto, vehicle, a thingy with wheels you drive in to get places. To wit: A sporty little black BMW Z4 Convertible Roadster. It was, in fact, parked in front of the hotel. The car hire company representative nearly jumped out of the driver's seat to hand the key over to Gabby.

After some preliminaries such as Gabby providing her driving licence information and a swipe of her credit card on the salesman's iPhone attachment, Gabby was in the driver's seat, our rucksacks in the back, I was insanely jealous of her driving it, and we were off.

"So, where are we going?" I asked, bouncing in the leather passenger seat just a little, and, like a little kid, hitting the button to bring the top down. It was strange, sitting on the right side of the car without a steering wheel in front of me, but Gabby didn't seem to mind the left hand drive. Nine years in America for her and I imagined driving left side was a bit like getting back upon an English saddle after riding Western for a while. You just did it.

She fiddled with her iPod in the car dock, dialing in a Ronn McFarlane album, and hitting play. "I'm not telling you until we get there." 

I pouted, sticking my bottom lip out as far as I could get it. 

She pointed at me. "And no amount of pudgy face will change my mind."

"Fine." I crossed my arms. "How long of a drive is it?"

"About three hours, so just relax."

I glared at her, boggled. "Three hours?"

"Believe me, it's worth the trip."

We hit the multi-laned highway after a short jaunt through the City. I pulled my iPhone from my hip shorts pocket, checked my numerous emails, and emailed my parents and sisters about our engagement, apologizing profusely for the sudden revelations. I know, not the classiest way to tell the family, but it was likely to get out soon, so best beat the Mail to it. 

I responded to a message from my publicist, Luke, about the photos from last night's event. That made the Mail already, but Luke was okay with it, apparently. It was all positive, especially the photos of Gabby and myself with Mayor Rahm Emmanuel and Gabby's medal proudly displayed. Good press is good press.

That being said, I also told him about Gabby and my new pre-marital status, and about how Charlie, the carriage driver, took our photo after we'd finished our engagement ride. I warned him that said photo might be uploaded to the internet at any time. 

I hoped, with this, his good mood wouldn't morph into a hissy fit, and that said hissy fit wouldn't be too violent after he read that. I further hoped that he wouldn't complain too much about the extra work it would require on his part in terms of spin control, or Twitter control. Ah, bless him for handling that fan shitstorm. I shudder to think.

But that wasn't the time to think on such things. Not with the music blaring, Gabby beside me, and the wind in my hair and the scent and shine of summer on the American prairie green and flowering all around me.

Next, I sent off a tweet, a song of the day inspired by the lilting, driving lute music flowing from the speakers and the ever increasing ruralness of the land on either side of the long, flat, nearly featureless highway.

"Jesus, but this is a boring stretch of road," I observed, "Which way are we going?"

"Northwest for a bit then it turns north," she replied. "Welcome to Illinois, love. They don't call the residents here 'flatlanders' for nothing."

I thumbed my iPhone to twitter again, and sent out another tweet, one that I'd been waiting to send, and could now that I knew the Mail had picked up Gabby's medal story.

Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: I could not be prouder of @gabbymaccfi. Highest honours given to the humblest of women. I am amazed every day. #medalofvalour #firefighters #sacrifice

***

We crossed the border into Wisconsin, and I got a little excited. "We're in BonIver country," I said, bouncing in my seat again, "I need to switch the music."

Gabby gestured to her iPod and I padded my index finger along the surface, selecting 'For Emma, Forever Ago.' "I've always wanted to listen to this music at it's source, you know? The Northwoods of Wisconsin and all that. Pine trees and rolling rivers, and hills and such."

"Well," Gabby observed. "We're not going that far north. We're not going to be even within six hours of the Northwoods; but whatever tickles your pickle."

"But we're in Wisconsin, yeah? I can imagine it, right?"

"You go right ahead, love."

"By the way," I said, slyly, "What else is in Wisconsin?"

She shook her head as she changed lanes to overtake a horse lorry. "I'm still not telling you."

"Damn."

***

We exited the main highway and went off on a secondary highway that took us past the City of Madison. Once past there, we cruised upon a two-lane road that wound through hillier, prettier country, some roads cut into the rock itself. Past farms and rolling landscapes, lakes, and little spots of towns and signs for places called Waunakee and Baraboo (oh, the bear is scared! Boo!) Yep. Very odd, these names. 

Very odd, these places, peppered along the blue highways. America and Americana at its finest. These were the things the foreign tourists like myself didn't always get to see.

I felt privileged, like I was getting an insider's view. And I loved it.

We stopped in a very small mite of a town Gabby said was called Mazo... Maz... um. Wait. Mezzo Soprano. No. Maize of Ming Lee... no. Crap. Mazomanie, I think. Oh, fuck all if I remembered after hearing a naff name like that. If I'd read a sign with the name on it I'd have remembered it. Damn my kind of sort of eidetic memory.

But anyway, we stopped at a small grocer. Gabby gave me instructions to gather picnic items such as napkins, disposable plates, cups, cutlery, raw veg, and some lunch salads at the deli counter. She picked out a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken, some crisps, some cans of Coke, and a cooled bottle of what she said was nice sweet white from a nearby winery called Wollersheim. 

Believe it or not, the young male bagger recognised me when we checked out. He stared at me, gobsmacked, mouthing "Tom Hiddleston, oh my god, it's Tom Hiddleston, it's Loki. Oh my god, it's Loki." over and over, as he packaged up our items. I grinned at him, said hello, and he nearly lost the plot. After Gabby managed to call him down a bit, I signed an autograph upon a folded up paper sack, and took a photograph with him both on his phone and on mine. 

Jeremy, his name was. 

Nice lad. If not a bit barmy. But nice.

So, back on the road, and soon we were in a town called Spring Green. Much easier to remember than Mazo-maniacal or whatever. Plus, there was a sign. So there.

"Are we there yet?" I asked, child-like, pointing to a sign for a place called Taliesin, that I'd heard of before from my studies at Cambridge. "I know you didn't drive me three hours away just to look at a Frank Lloyd Wright house." She glared at me, wide eyed, her nose flaring just a bit. "Oh, shit, you did, didn't you. Oh, shit, love, I'm so sorry."

She bit her bottom lip, seething. I was in for it.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I held my hands up. "No, it's great! I'm excited! I love Lloyd-Wright, you know I do!" I prattled. "Geometric and all squared off and mathematical and all beautiful architecture and such, it's perfect!" I enthused. "Absolutely perfect, let's go. I'm on it, let's go."

She smirked and giggled behind her hand. "I was taking the piss. We're not going to Taliesin."

My mouth dropped open and stayed that way for a few beats. I pushed my lower jaw out, and squinted at her, shutting my gob with a click of my teeth. "You bizzem."

She winked at me. "Sucker."

We turned up a long, winding drive and pulled into a parking lot for a place called American Players Theatre. "Isn't this where you worked during Uni?" I asked.

"Three summers' worth hanging lights."

I looked around. All I saw was one building and a small hut off to the side. "Where is it? The theatre, I mean? There's not much here."

"You'll see." She lit from the car and grabbed some of the groceries from behind the seat. 

"Are we here for a play?" I checked my watch. "It's only quarter past eleven." I picked up and hefted the rest of the packages.

"You'll see." She started toward the building, I followed.

"We're not here just for a picnic and a look-round right? Are we? We're not, right?"

"We're here for a picnic and a play. It's a matinee. Stop fretting and trust me."

"What play?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." We approached the ticket window.

"How do you plan to keep it from me, then?" I asked, slyly.

She matched my wry look with one of her own. "I've my ways, love." She set down her bags and spoke to the girl behind the ticket counter. "Two for Hiddleston, please."

***

The girl behind the ticket counter's eyes went wide when she heard my name and saw me. Instant recognition by name association. She handed our tickets over to Gabby, eyeing me with a nervous smile.

Great.

As we walked away toward the picnic area, I swear I heard the girl mash the button of a walkie talkie and say, "The eagle has landed. I repeat, the eagle has landed."

We were met by a young man in period dress, apparently a young member of the acting company, if I'd guessed correctly. "Good morning, Mr. Hiddleston, Ms. MacKenzie," he greeted. "My name is Daniel and I will be your guide for today."

I shook the lad's hand, politely. "Nice to meet you, Daniel. Please, call me Tom." Daniel nodded, and took our grocery sacks, carrying them two on each arm. We started following him up a long, winding path. About halfway up, I caught up to him, matching his long stride. I took one of the bags back from him with a smile. "So, Daniel, is this a service everyone here gets?"

"No, sir." He reached for the bag again, and I pulled it away. "Just for VIPs."

"What would you consider a VIP? I asked. 

He looked at me, owl-eyed, and blinked, unable to answer. "It's not my decision," he replied, and reached for the bag again.

"Nope. I have it."

We arrived at a secluded picnic area with a single table, laid with a checked tablecloth, flatware, plates, and a nice arrangement of flowers in the centre. Very nice. There was a new chrome gas grill nearby. "Will you need the grill, Ms. MacKenzie?" Daniel asked.

"No, thanks," Gabby replied. "We'll be just fine." 

Daniel gave us a grand, sweeping bow, doffing his hat in the process. "Your seating call is at twelve thirty. I will come back to escort you to your seats for the show. Enjoy your lunch." With that, Daniel took his leave, but only after I asked him one question.

"So, Daniel, what's the play this afternoon? I inquired, casually.

Gabby and Daniel exchanged looks. He tried desperately to hide a grin. "I am not at liberty to tell you, sir," he replied, and I swear he was chuckling a little bit as he left back down the hill. 

And Gabby and I were alone. "Please?" I stuck my bottom lip out at her, furrowing my brow.

"No pudgy face!" She chided, and went to work setting out the picnic things. While setting about her tasks, she put the tickets down upon the table. I reached for them, stealthily, but she beat me to it, slapping a hand upon the envelope.. "Nuh, huh, uh." 

"Damn."

***

"Oh my God, it's ab-so-lute-ly brilliant!" Awe was not the right word for the state I was in. 

Daniel returned right on time and escorted Gabby and myself the rest of the way up the hill. After promising to take the rest of our things back down to the box office, where we could pick them up after, he ushered us into the theatre space.

It wasn't so much a theatre, but almost a quasi natural yet man-made extension of the deciduous forest behind and the hill itself. The stage space was circular, with tall, extending pillars and walls that seemed to have grown from or were hewn from the pine, oak, and elm trees that surrounded it on all sides. 

"You worked here?" I breathed. "Jesus, it's amazing."

"I knew you'd like it." Gabby draped an arm around my shoulder.

The house wasn't officially open yet, so I had some time to explore. I walked up to the stage, and set my hand upon the wood boards. I could always feel the energy and the life in a theatre space. It was like a vibration or a whisper, however you wanted to look at it. There was life writ large in this place. 

I knew anything I'd see here would be wondrous. 

***

The energy and life increased exponentially as people started filing in. Our seats were on the house right centre aisle, near the front, but not in the front. Gabby insisted that I sit on the aisle. I didn't argue.

The lights went down, and a single actor came out onto the stage.

He said: 

"O for a Muse of fire that would ascend..."

And I knew immediately. Jesus Christ with a present of tennis balls. I grinned, broadly, like a complete lunatic, and grabbed at Gabby's hand.

"Gabby! You brought me to see Henry the Fifth!" I whispered, still grinning.

She nodded. "Performed by some of the best actors you'll ever see do Shakespeare." I shot her a playful, pouty moue. "Present company excepted." She patted my shoulder, conciliatory. She directed her attention to the play with her eyes and a tilt of her head. "Now watch."

***

I did watch, enraptured, with everything. The delivery, the sets, the costumes, you name it. It was all perfection. 

At one point I actually found myself questioning the merits of my own performance of Henry years ago -- that was how brilliant the young actor playing Henry before me was.

An then something amazing happened. 

Henry came out into the audience during the St. Crispin's Day speech, brilliantly addressing the entire audience as if we were all Henry's men, preparing for the battle of Agincourt. He approached this man in the audience, and that one, shaking their hands, and patting them regally upon their shoulders. 

And when he said, "And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by from this day to the ending of the world," he walked back down our aisle toward the stage. 

And then, when Henry said, "But we in it shall be remember'd," he approached me, grasped my hand and pulled me up to stand. Putting an arm around me and smiling, he looked me in the eye and said, "we few... we happy few," and gestured to me. 

I took the cue. I nodded, put on my best pre-battle English soldier face, straightened myself up to my full height, and bellowed, heartily, enthusiastically, and stage-voiced, my fist thrust victoriously into the air, "we band... of brothers!"

"Yes, my goodly man Hiddleston! We band of brothers!" Henry improvised. He embraced me, gave me a fraternal pat on the chest and grip about the back of the neck, and walked back to the stage, completing his speech to the actors assembled upon the stage.

I sat there, stunned. Happy. Laughing. I was completely fanboyed up and utterly geeked out on an American midwestern production of Shakespeare. Which if you'd seen it you'd know it wasn't a difficult thing. I felt a little like that boy Jeremy I'd met earlier that day. "oh my god it's King Henry, oh my god it's King Henry...."

I kissed Gabby's cheek, squeezed her hand, and whispered to her. "Thank you, love. I may actually learn to like surprises from now on."

***

To make a very long story short, I snoozed in the car on the way back to Chicago. Bless Gabby for driving it out. By the time we'd met all of the actors and crew, had a tour of the facility (of which I remain in absolute awe) had a wonderful dinner at a place called the House On The Rock Inn with the play's director and the company's principal actor (very nice and interesting bloke) and said our goodbyes, it was well into the evening.

And I was well knackered.

We arrived back at the hotel at half past midnight, returned the car to the concierge, and trudged back up to our room.

And I slept, quite soundly, dreaming of Henry the Fifth act five, with me, on the APT stage, in the role as Henry, kissing a beautiful Catherine that looked just like my Gabby.

As Spongebob would say: Best. Day. Ever.


	20. Playing By The Rules - One Shot (NC17)

The lift doors opened with a pleasant 'ding.' I stepped out, temporarily blinded by the the noontime sun reflecting off the white knockdown plaster from a window at the end of the hallway.

I turned to the right, into the relief of a shadow. My footsteps were muffled by the short, nubby carpeting, itself a strange pattern of grays and browns in alternating diamond shapes. I knocked on the door, smiling a little as I read the name upon it.

"Vulcan Fire Engineering UK, LTD.," and a number of names beneath, including that of Gabrielle Leigh MacKenzie, M.S. Eng., CEng, IAAI-CFI. My girlfriend. I don't get much into gushy niceties, so I won't say things like 'the love of my life' or 'my boo' or 'the woman who makes the world turn for this arsehole' or 'my evening star and my morning sun,' but you get the idea. She's like, mine. 

Yeah. She's tough, daring, brilliant, a bit stubborn, very scary, and she's mine.

But enough boring exposition. More action, right?

So, my friends, I knocked on the door, and then rang the bell. It was of a Saturday, so Gabby had been working in the office alone. No Tina. No phone girl Brianna. No Michael, Jack, or Peter. Just Gabby. 

"It's open," she called out from some distance. 

I turned the knob, albeit with some difficulty as I'd been burdened down a bit with a few bags of lunch from Pret dangling from one arm, and a dozen roses cradled in the other. After some bending, twisting, and even some grunting, I managed to get the door open. I stepped in and kicked it shut again behind me.

"You shoudn't leave the door open when you're in here alone, you know," I chided her, ensuring that my voice carried down the corridor. "It's not safe."

"Tom?" I heard the wheels of her chair scrape the plastic floor protector. A second later she met me halfway to her office. 

"Happy birthday, love," I presented her with the roses. Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands to her mouth. "I couldn't wait for tonight."

She stood there, her hands still in position, blinking away tears. She reached out her arms, and I laid the roses, gently within them. "Tom, they're gorgeous, thank you." She took the two steps necessary to bring her body close to mine. She placed her palm upon my chest, tilted her head (damn her) and touched her lips to mine, chaste, quick, and lovely. "Tom, you really shouldn't have." 

She set her cool, soft, smooth fingers alongside my cheek, and stroked, and when she looked at me, her eyes were similarly cool, and soft, yet there was a heat there that I knew all too well. 

Yep, the roses did it. Ba-bing! Score one for Tom. 

"Oh, and bless you, you brought lunch!" She took the Pret bags from me, and started toward her office at the end of the corridor. "Come on, let's eat, I'm famished."

***

"So," she said, casually, popping the last bit of chicken avo sandwich into her mouth, "Is this all to make up for your bratty little snit from last night?" She leaned back in her chair, crossed her fingers behind her head, and propped her good leg up on the desk.

Gabby had worn a pair of denim shorts to the office that day, it being a Saturday, and damn me if that quite unlady-like position she was in didn't lend me a perfect view from my vantage point in her guest chair. Sunshine outside; the moon inside, if you catch my drift. My breath hitched a little, and Gabby mistook it for an expression of shame.

"Better now?" She grinned. She reached for her drink on the side, brought it to her mouth, and sucked down the dregs of her fizzy drink, making a loud slurping noise.

I took a long drink from my water bottle, and set it down upon a stack of post-it notes. "I suppose, but I'm still a bit miffed."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Tom, it was a game, for fuck's sake. Just a game."

"But I swear, no, I know, I was in the right. I was absolutely in the right."

"But you weren't following the rules." Gabby brought her leg back down, leaned forward and set her elbows upon the desk. She spoke quietly, a bit seductively, if you ask me, but then Gabby could have been saying the Lord's Prayer and I'd have found it seductive. 

"I was following the rules," I said, indignantly, frowning.

"No," she said, her visage taking on the likeness of a tigress about to pounce, "you cheated," she paused, and licked her lips, only reinforcing the simile, "and since it is my birthday, I think you should say you're sorry, and that you ought think on your sins and repent of it."

You know those little muscles around your eyes and in your forehead, the ones that, when engaged, give you a bug-eyed, or an owl-eyed look where, if you don't blink, your peepers become in serious danger of drying out? Well, those shifted into overdrive on my face. I felt the cool air pummel my exposed eyeballs, and I blinked, rapidly against it. "R-r-repent?" I stuttered. I swallowed. No, I gulped.

"Come here," she crooked a finger at me. "I think I need to show you how games are played proper-like."

Little brain. Oh, little brain, how I love thee. Especially when thou takest over the rest of mine body and leadeth me to the green pastures and taketh me to the still waters for thy names sake. Especially when thou makest my legs do thy bidding and walketh through the valley of the shadow of death to mine woman and kneeleth before her.

Oh, I shall fear no evil.

I found myself crouched before Gabby, my body between her open legs, my hands splayed wide, covering every possible inch of flesh on her thighs. She grasped me, her own hands taking over all the real estate on the sides of my head, and she pulled me up. 

I pushed against her legs and propelled myself upwards, fowards, my mouth to her mouth, my body to her body. I wound my arms around her middle, my hands gladly and happily entrapped between her torso and the wooden back of her desk chair. It creaked a little under the added weight, just like mine did at home. 

The edge of the seat pressed into my torso a bit but I didn't mind. 

My focus was elsewhere.

She continued working her fingers through my Saturday mess of a head of hair, blunt nails raking against my skull. Her lips fought with mine, as if we could settle our petty little tiff via a battle of mouths instead of words. Then our tongues joined the fray, mine slipping stealthily behind her enemy lines, taking hers prisoner, slipping under her radar. 

She sighed into me, her breath mingling with mine like morning mist over the battlefield. I moaned like a wounded soldier and she responded with a plaintive war cry of her own. 

Gabby sat foward, releasing one of my hands from its war prison. I immediately put the solider back into active duty, pressing my palm against her breast, over the Iron Maiden curtain of her t-shirt fabric; old, worn, and thin, with no defenses of a brassiere nature beneath it. 

She groaned again, and I felt the heel of her hand press against my centre. I realise I'm mixing metaphors quite terribly here, but oh I was not in want, oh, did my rod and staff begin to comfort me.

My cup was close to runneth-ing over.

I pushed my hips forward, urging her on. "No," she whispered, close to my ear. She nipped my earlobe, and it hurt. I cried out a bit and she laughed. "Not yet."

"Repentance first?" 

She nodded.

I worked at the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it up just slightly, just enough to expose the pale flesh of her stomach, painted with curliqueues of reddened tissue on her side. The flight feathers of her angel wing burn scars on her back. I touched her there, and she hissed. 

She lifted her hips as I unfastened her shorts, lowered the zip, and pulled the offending fabric down, slowly, carefully, attentively lifting and freeing each leg. I threw the garment over my head, no idea where it would land. At the same time she reached down and nearly tore my shirt from my body, tossing it God-knew-where, leaving me half naked, the Calvin Klein band of my pants peeking up through my low-rise jeans.

"Repentance," I repeated. 

She let out a keening groan as I lowered myself down upon my haunches, bringing my mouth to the flesh of her left thigh. She scratched my scalp again, mussing my hair even further as she worked her fingers in, pushing me toward her centre. I teased her there, moving my lips in an undulating pattern up and down her skin, leaving a heated trail behind with my tongue. 

"Tom," she warned. "Tom...."

"I'm considering my penance, love," I breathed against the cotton of her underclothes. Her flesh was warm there, so very warm. So very heady and intoxicating, and even though I'd just consumed a full lunch, I was suddenly quite hungry again.

My index and middle fingers pushed aside the pink cotton, when Gabby suddenly grasped my hair, rather painfully. "Ouch!" I cried, "what the..."

"Shhh," she hissed, her muscles stiffening. She closed her legs some distance and I was forced to lift my head in retreat. "Shhh," she repeated.

"What?" I whispered, and then I heard it.

The front office door shut with a creak, a whine, and then a bang. Footsteps shuffled along the carpeted hallway floor. 

"Gabs?" 

"Shit!" Gabby whispered. "It's Tina."

"Gabs? You here?" Tina called out in her sing-songey Jennifer Saunders type voice. "I know you're here, love, and I see Tom sent you roses, red ones yet, awwwww, so sweet, that man of yours, isn't he just? The perfect gentleman, he is. I mean, these roses are just so delicious, I wish Ben would send me something like that now and again, but you know, he's so busy with Sherlock and all that, and besides, my birthday's not 'til October, so you never knoooooow. " 

By the end of Tina's gushing tirade about my level of sweet boyfriend-ness, Gabby had shoved me bodily by the shoulders beneath her desk. It was not a very large space, mind you, and as you well know I am all arms and legs, gangly and full of knees and elbows, so for me to fold myself into that spot, along with Gabby's leg, prosthetic, and her feet, was quite a task.

My head was bent at an odd angle, the side of it, my ear flush against the underside of her desk. Not at all comfortable, I'll have you know.

The only way to provide myself relief was to prop myself upon hands and knees, and place my head directly between Gabby's thighs.

So, I did just that.

"Tina!" Gabby said, her voice wavering a bit. She coughed once and then said, again, "Tina, what are you doing here?"

I heard the guest chair creak and groan, apparently Tina had made herself at home in Gabby's office. "Working, silly goose, just like you." She paused a moment, then asked, "S'Tom here?"

"No." Gabby said quickly. "Nope, not here. Tom's not here."

Not here! Fucking hell, yes I was there. And I would prove it. 

And the more I thought on it, the more I knew I was right. Repentance, my arse. 

I was in the right. I didn't cheat. I followed the rules. Repent. Ha! Yeah, I'd repent all right.

Revenge is more like it.

I leaned slightly forward, once again working my lips over her right knee, then higher, turning and working up her left thigh, just above the cup of her prosthetic, where she was particularly sensitive to my touch. I couldn't use my hands, braced as they were upon the floor. 

"Pretty roses," I heard Tina gush. 

I licked a languid line up her left thigh, stopping just short of her centre. I exhaled, breathing heated carbon dioxide into the fabric of her knickers. 

"Pretty!" she croaked. Her hand flew back into my hair, and she dug her nails in again. Harder this time. "Yep, pretty. Very very! Pretty." 

I bit down upon the side waistband of the fabric, trying desperately not to chuckle or moan as I pulled gently down. She automatically lifted her hips, and I was able to get the panties the rest of the way off her hips with my teeth. She tried closing her legs to me, but I was too quick, forcing my head once again between them.

"Did you finish the Aspect Industries report?" Tina asked. "Jim Thompson called me about that one whilst you were out at the Ingot Lakes fire on Thursday."

I pushed forward again, latching my lips to that little bundle of nerves at the apex of her centre, and I sucked upon it. She bucked, her fingers dug in harder, yet again, and I heard a noise as her hand must have slapped the desktop. "Yessssss," she croaked. "Yes... yes... I...." 

I let my mouth explore her lower, licking and sucking at the pliant flesh there, working my tongue in languid waves, tilting my chin forward, and exploring the tastes inside of her. I grasped her ankle and pulled, forcing her to open her legs wider to me. 

"It's done," she said quickly, breathily. "I uh... I... " I flicked my tongue against the bit of flesh at the bottom of her opening, "I!" She cried, her ankle twisting this way and that within the circle of my hand. "I finished it!" she nearly yelled, "Yes! Yes! yes-sssterday!"

I couldn't help but chuckle a bit, and I'm sure the vibrations of my silent laughter drove her further on. I heard another slap upon the desk. "I sent that off yesterday," Gabby managed to say. I felt her body tense against me as she struggled to keep her composure. I squeezed her ankle again, and she kicked out at my knee with her prosthetic. 

She missed, and I licked her clitoris again as punishment. This made her cry out.

"You okay, Gabs?" Tina asked. "You sound funny."

I tickled her nerves again, and she bucked. She faked a sneeze. Her hand left my head, apparently to cover her face and solidify her lie. "I've a bit of a..." another lick, "aahhh! A... a cold!" Another fake sneeze, then, "Jesus! Woo! Ohmygod!"

I laughed against her again, and she squirmed.

"You should run to Boots, luvvie. They've a sale on Lemsip now, with the season coming and all."

"Yep... season... coming...." Gabby repeated. I'd managed to free my left hand, and wiggled it between her legs and the chair, so that I was able to push two fingers inside her, pumping, working in tandem with my lips above. 

"Coming," she repeated, and then, "aah, Christ!"

"Gabs?" Tina said, questioningly, "you gonna sneeze again, love?"

"Sneeze, yes," Gabby said, her breath now coming in huffs and puffs as I continued to work her into a frenzy. She squirmed relentlelssly, her leg swinging back and forth nearly in time with my fingers and my tongue. She was close, so close. I could feel it in the swell of her flesh, and the heat she gave off. But I kept her there, right at the edge. Not yet willing to let her go over. "I definitely... feel... a massive sneeze... aah!... coming on."

"Need a tissue?" I heard the 'shuss' noises of a number of tissues being plucked from a box. Gabby tried forcing one down against herself to blockade me from any further clitoral stimulation, but failed. I merely blew it to the side, and in so doing, blew air upon her dampened skin, making her jump. I caressed her with air yet again. "Aah, oh... oh." I heard her sigh and audibly swallow. I set my mouth upon her again, and my sensitive lips felt yet another spike in temperature, and a significant increase in flesh mass. 

She was so close to relase. So close, but I wasn't ready to set her free. Not yet.

"That's some sneeze, love," I heard Tina say, although her voice had taken on a strange tone, "you'd best let it out 'fore it makes your eyes bug out your head."

"I can't... I... I can't," Gabby stuttered, "Jesus Christ, but I... can't. He won't... I mean, It won't let me.. I mean, it won't come!"

I decided it was time to let Gabby off the hook so to speak. I brought my tongue to a point, and flicked it, up and down, rapidly against her, working beneath the hood of flesh and providing a delicious stimulation to that uniquely female nerve centre designed for pleasure and pleasure alone.

And pleasure I would provide.

"Let it out," Tina instructed. "G'head, just let it out, love."

"I'm... trying..." Gabby squeaked, "oh, fucking Christ Jesus goddamn amen I'm trying."

"If you hold it in, it'll only make it worse when it does come." I could hear laughter in Tina's voice now, and it made me giggle against Gabby.

There was an explosive noise above me from Gabby. It sounded like a fifteen megaton bomb had been set off in her mouth. She tried desperately, I could hear, to morph that loud "aargh!" into a sneeze, and she failed miserably, rather comically. Both of her hands smacked upon the desktop multiple times, her heels dug into the floor beside me, and her hips bucked upward, her centre pressing hard against my face, her arse lifted from the chair.

I felt yet another increase of warmth flood my lips, and a gentle pulsing sensation pull and push against my tongue. I let her down slowly, easily, placing tiny, closed-mouth kisses upon her still reeling-still swollen skin.

She settled, quickly. Panting, her left hand brushing against my hair, almost petting me, stroking me. She inhaled a large breath and let it out, very very slowly, very deliberately.

"That's better," Gabby breathed.

"Well now," I heard Tina say, a bit shocked, "bless you, I suppose."

"Thank you." Gabby smiled. I could hear the sigh in her voice. I continued giving her kisses here and there along her thighs, continuing to cool her down, settling her and gentling her like one would an agitated horse. "Thank you," Gabby said again.

I heard a shuffle of feet and the slight shuss of a chair against carpet. A few steps, and then a door being pulled open. "Well, love," Tina said, "I'm gonna go see to that Inverness Hotel report, yeah? You take care of yourself the rest of this week-end, and rid yourself of that nasty nose thing you've there."

"Okay," Gabby sighed. "Okay. Will do, T. Will do."

I heard the door start to close, more footsteps, and then, "See you 'round, then, Tom."

I froze for a moment and looked up at Gabby. She looked down at me and shrugged.

"See you, Tina," I responded, sheepishly. There was a giggle, a snort, then a full headed laugh, and then the door shut.

"Arsehole!" Gabby rolled her chair back, glaring down at me. "Arsehole!"

I crawled out from beneath the desk and knelt before her. "You loved it." I kissed her, and she moaned into me. She licked frantically at my lips, obviously pleasured by the taste of herself there. "You know," I said, "I've always wanted to do that."

"Well, now you have, so fuck off." Gabby smacked me in the arm, jokingly. "Seriously, Tom. What the fuck were you playing at?" The laughter in her voice made it clear that she was not at all upset with me. Just the contrary.

"Are you still going to lecture me about playing by the rules, then?" I moaned a little, feeling her warm lips upon my neck and shoulders. She was still winding down from the high I'd given her. 

"You broke all the rules just then, love."

"I know." I shrugged, "but I still think I was in the right last night."

"You were not," she said, hotly.

"Was too."

"Were not!"

"Of course I was! Why not?"

"Tom," she said, professorially. She leaned in to me, brushing her lips against mine, and once again placing the heel of her hand upon my jeans front. "You took off your running watch last night."

"So," I said, my lips against her cheek, "that counts."

She nipped at my ear. "Not in strip poker, it doesn't."

"Well," I bit her bottom lip, grasped her hand and guided her fingers between my pants and my rapidly heating skin, "who says I have to play by the rules?"

And surely her goodness and mercy followed me all the rest of that day.

***


	21. Le Petit Mort - One Shot - NC17

HAMLET

O, I die, Horatio;  
The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit:  
I cannot live to hear the news from England;  
But I do prophesy the election lights  
On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice;  
So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less,  
Which have solicited. The rest is silence.

Dies

HORATIO

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince:  
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!  
****

The damnable poison spread like a drop of ink in water from the stab wound in my shoulder. It stung, blast it. I could feel my own blood move within my body, as it carried my death along with it, down my arm, over my chest, up to my face, into my groin, to my heart.

When the agony of it spread to my legs, they buckled beneath me and I crashed in a heap to the hard, unforgiving floor. My fingers ceased functioning, my open hand releasing the rapier, the thin metal clattering, the sound of it echoing throughout the chamber, echoing in my ears, pounding in my head. 

It was all so painful. So very painful. I'd contemplated death only a short time ago; and now I was unsure just how welcome I would make it. 

I dragged my body, my legs dead behind me, my arms pulling and pushing against the cold, oh, so cold floor, and when I could pull and push no more there was a sudden warmth beneath me. 

Loving hands upon my face, fingers through my hair, probing deftly at the wound on my shoulder, velvet breeches against the skin of my neck, and a familiar scent of horses, red wine, and leather. 

Horatio. Oh, Horatio. My Horatio.

"O, I die, Horatio," I croaked, "the potent poison... quite o'er-crows my spirit...." My words slurred terribly, my voice hollow and distant in my failing ears. I lifted my head, heavy as it was, and my wandering, unfocusing eyes lit upon Horatio there, and there they stayed; Horatio's own glistening with unshed tears. 

I tried moving my hand -- to touch that face, I so wanted to touch that dark, swarthy, face once more, but my hand had become even heavier than my head, as if tied down, shackled, as if weighted with a thousand water-soaked sacks of grain. 

"I cannot live... to hear the news from England," I sighed, resigned, "but I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras. He has my... dying voice. So," I coughed, and felt a warm trickle of blood escape my lips and flow down my cheek, into my ear, closing off my hearing except for the drip drip dripping onto the marble floor beneath me. "So... so... so tell him... tell him with the... the... occurents, more or less... ah!... which have solicited." I whispered the last words, my throat now barely able to produce sound, my voice reduced to a raspy crackle. 

I lost my sight. The world went entirely black, yet, the darkness stabbed heated knives into my head and into my eyes. Stars. I did see stars. 

So many stars. 

I coughed, once, twice, my mouth filling again with bile and blood. I choked upon it, and felt Horatio's warm, calloused hands upon my cheek, turning my head gently to the side.

My chest burned. My lungs afire. Breath no longer came. The bellows of my lungs no longer opened and closed to the hearth that was my life. My chest heaved upward, sucking in what precious air it could, and...

Upon my last breath, I whispered,

"The rest... is silence....."

Every muscle, every sinew in my body shook violently, control gone, muscles taut and painful. I cried out, an inhuman wail that forced out whatever air was left in my body. Sight had flown from me; smell, touch, everything gone. 

Dead for a ducat. Dead.

And then a relaxation, a release... a freedom. A light. A bright light. 

A beautiful light.

And the Earth was no longer my home.

"Cut! Print! And we're bloody well done for the day!"

Applause from all around me. I opened my eyes to find Zac Levi hovering over me, grinning a Cheshire. "Oh, Horatiooooooo," he mocked, sing-song, "Oh, I diiiiiiiiiie, Horatio." He laughed, shaking his head. "Sometimes, Hidds, you are a serious fucking hambone."

"No, I'm not." I replied, pouting. I wiped the sticky red stuff from the side of my face and dug it out of my ear with a finger. It stuck there. Ugh.

A tech brought a bucket up beside me. I turned on to my side, up on my elbows, and spat the rest of it from out of my mouth, including the dregs of the capsule. "Blah, that's right awful." I spat some more and wiped my tongue upon the sleeve of my shirt (it comes out in the wash you know). "No, I just take Ken's direction very well. It's not my fault he still believes in the bite-your-knuckle-tween-your-teeth method of acting."

"I heard that, Tom," Ken laughed. "Don't knock it, that shit got you through Loki just fine."

The boom op moved the heavy, claustrophobia-inducing camera out of my face. Zac gave me his hand, and I grasped it, pulling myself off the floor against his counterweight. My costume assistant, Janine, handed me a towel, I said my thanks, and made an attempt to scrub the rest of the red stuff from my hair and the skin behind my neck. I felt a long dribble of it down my back and tried to reach it. 

A cool, soft hand grasped mine and took the towel from me. 

Gabby walked to the side of the sound stage beside me. "That was amazing, Tom," she beamed. "Absolutely amazing." She lifted my shirt and sponged up the rest of the goop from my back, handing me the flannel when she'd finished. "I nearly ran out onto the set at the end there to give you CPR. You really looked dead."

"Thanks, love," I threw my arm round her and planted a kiss atop her head. "It's just a matter of understanding what happens to the body during the death process," I explained, opening the door to my dressing room. I let Gabby go in before me and shut the door behind. "And, it's a matter of understanding how the particular method of death works, studying the physicality of it, and then imitating it. In this case, some sort of quick acting poison. I did my research."

"When you put it that way, it's pretty simple," Gabby observed.

I bent over and pulled the soiled shirt over my head, grunting and groaning with the effort of it. I threw the billowy piece of linen into the bin near the door for Janine to deal with later. I grabbed another towel and draped it over my shoulders.

Exhausted, I ran a hand through my bottle-brush hair and plopped my arse down upon the sofa. Gabby lowered herself to the floor in front of me and God bless her, she pulled my boots off. 

"Oh, that's good," I sighed, leaning back luxuriously against the cushions. I spread my arms out behind me, settling my self like a pasha upon a cloud of exotic velvets and silks in a grand bazaar. "Gabby, love?" I wiggled my toes. She looked up at me, smiling. "Be a dear and give us a foot rub, yeah? My dogs are barking."

Gabby's smile morphed quickly into a moue of disgust. She tipped her head (damn her), still cringing. "Seriously?" She stood and joined me on the settee, sitting beneath my outstretched right arm.

I wound my fingers into her ponytail. "Seriously, please?" I reached down and pulled the thin stockings from my feet. Swinging my legs up, I twisted my body, and plopped my now bare feet unceremoniously into her lap. "Please?" I gave her my best pouty look.

"No pudgy face," she chided me, pointing at my nose. "You know what pudgy face does to me."

I 'pudgy faced' even harder, sticking my bottom lip out further and widening my eyes. "Pweeeeeeze?"

"Oh, you're bloody disgusting when you do that," she laughed, adjusted her arse down into the sofa, and took one of my feet into her strong hands. She worked her thumbs over my instep, pressing in half circles, in and out and over and under and...aah! 

I groaned with the sensation of it, of her pressing her thumbs with the blunt nails right into those delicious spots, right... oh... "Oh, but that's terribly nice, love. So very nice," I crooned. "Please, don't stop. Ever." 

"Arsehole, always get your way, don't you, bloody diva."

"Aww, c'mon. You love me." I gave her a quick boop on the nose with my pointer finger. She growled and snapped her teeth, making to bite my finger off. I pulled back, feigning a startle, a splayed hand to my chest. "Now, now, my dear." I waggled the same finger before her. "Be nice."

"Nice? Yeah? I'll give you nice." Gabby's lips curled into a wicked half smile and her eyes brightened quite suddenly. She grasped my foot in both hands, flashed me an unreadable look, leaned forward, and -- holy shit. Holy shit, but she took my big toe into her mouth, sucking upon it, her tongue working in short strokes over the pad on the bottom. 

"Jesus!" I yelled, bucking my hips high off the cushions. "Gabby, what're you...." She did it again, sucking harder. "Oh, good Christ Almighty! What'd you do that for?" I gasped, breathless. 

She did it again, sucked on my toe again, the little... gah!

I fell backwards, hitting my head on the sofa arm, my eyes rolling up involuntarily. I kneaded the fabric of the towel, twisting it between my hands. "Oh, oh..." I breathed, "Gab...Gab..by! Aah!" I squirmed, my hips swiveling of their own accord under the pressure of my awakened groin. She sucked yet again. "Gnargh!"

Damn, that felt good, felt like she was... like she was...sucking on.... Oh, Christ. It felt like her mouth was working on a spot much further north on my body. 

I clutched my chest, my pulse beat a quickstep tattoo, I was in a proverbial cardiac arrest, and all those little electrical nodes in my heart felt like they were failing. Like they were firing off haphazardly. 

Like I was dying and happy to die.

She swirled her tongue over the top of my other big toe, and I cried out against it, yet again. "Fuck, Gabby!"

"You said your dogs were barking," she said, a husky, deep tone to her voice, "I was just throwing them... a bone."

A bone. Yeah, a bone. I didn't need anymore goddamn bones. I was getting a fucking big enough bone right where I... "Bollocks!"

I bent my knees, my feet beating a hasty retreat from her lap, from any more toe rape. I sat up quickly and lunged at her across the sofa. I grasped her tight by her leather-jacket clad shoulders, hard enough to leave a bruise, quite likely; and pulled her to me with significant force. 

I nearly crashed my nose into hers as our lips collided, automatically and involuntarily opening one to another. 

We bypassed the formalities of a knock upon the proverbial door of our lips and simply barged into the hearths of each other's mouths, kicking violently through the garden screens; both of us demanding only the finest tea, cake, wine, and respite of each other; and refusing utterly to leave until we got exactly and precisely what we came for and in great quantities.

I pulled back, my chest heaving, lungs sucking in and blowing out great gouts of air. She had somehow shed her jacket. She was in a similar state of pure unadulterated arousal. 

I could almost smell it, she had driven me so feral.

She licked her lips, still panting. I dove in for more, gentler this time, slowly massaging her mouth with mine, peppering the corners with tiny pecks. "Jesus, Gabby," I breathed, "you're going to do me a murder."

"You already died once today, love," she whispered, the breath ghosting like summer wind over my cheeks, "think you can handle doing it again?"

Oh shit oh fuck oh my god, oh god....

Gabby stood and pulled the dress from her body, over her head, in one swift movement. The striped Max Azria frock fell in a particoloured heap, joining her leather jacket upon the dressing room floor. I pulled my eyes away from it, wide in shock and awe. 

Because what I saw nearly gave me a stroke.

Gabby, in her underthings. Very very tiny underthings, God damn her. Barely anything there at all; as if she'd planned this, the wee bint. 

I prayed no one would knock on my dressing room door, I sent up a request to God that Kenneth would leave me the fuck alone for twenty minutes, or that Zac would not be standing outside with his ear to the door. 

I darted my hands out, like a snake striking, and grabbed her. I pulled her close to me, shaking her like a raptor would its prey into the space between my open legs, before my rapidly hardening self. She touched me there, and I moaned, my mandible jutting forward, pushing those lower teeth out in front of my upper lip. 

It was all I could do but stare at her. As if she were my lifeline, as if she were that one thing that was keeping me fastened and steadfast to this Earth, as if she were my oxygen and my water and my shelter. My life, and I didn't want to let my life go. 

Not just yet.

I let my hands roam up her back, along the angel wing shaped scars there, and she arched into my touch, the sensitive flesh heating beneath my hands. I grasped her shoulders from behind, my forearms pressing into her back, pulling her down to me. 

I explored the skin between her breasts with my tongue, relishing in the warmth beneath her brassiere. She cried out, and held me securely in place, her own head thrown back, her arms and hands wound tightly about me, massaging my scalp and neck as I worked. 

I nudged her soft, pillowy flesh surrounding me on both sides, nudged her with my nose and my lips, grunting and groaning with my hunger, my want and desire of her.

My hands found the clasp and freed her breasts from their confinement. She sighed contentedly and let the garment slide down her arms and drape over my bare feet below. I peered up at her, and she met my heated gaze. "Gabby," I whispered. "Oh, God. Please." 

She nodded. She spread her legs and sat down upon me, straddling my lap, her good leg set at a beautiful toe-pointed angle upon the settee behind me, her prosthetic dangling to the floor below. I dragged my fingers up over the cold silicone, caressing it, massaging it as if it were her own flesh. When I reached the muscle above the cup, I squeezed her there, and she tensed; throwing her pelvis forward.

"Aah! Tom!"

"Stand up," I ordered, my words coming out reedy and staccato. "Stand... stand up, please, I... I need you to stand up. Up, stand up." She complied, and I worked frantically at the flies of the goddamn fucking velvet period trousers with all the fucking buttons; and tiny buggering button holes, and if I'd had my druthers I'd have torn them to bloody rags -- to utter shreds, popping the buttons left and right, but they weren't mine, so I had to take care.

My hands shook violently; they were useless against the bits of horn and wood attached to the fabric. "Fuck!" I swore, "Fuck, Gabby, I... I can't get...," I sighed, "I can't...."

Her hands stilled my hands. Her eyes caught my own and calmed my spirit. "Shhh, Tom." She ran a hand over my face, up through my hair, over my ears, like one would a frightened child. "Relax." 

I looked past her, my eyes unfocused, and I saw my reflection in the wall mirror. I was panting, still frantic, my once-again-blond curls standing up in all directions. "Let me," she'd said, and my attention was back upon her. "Let me do it."

She took my hands in hers, kissed my fingers, and once again, knelt before me. Her hands moved, working quickly and deftly, freeing me from the offending black velvet. My breath came rapid and heavy as I sat there, my blood pounding against the walls of my jugular vein; fit to burst within the skin of my neck. 

"There, see?" she crooned, spreading the fabric aside. She smiled, grasped the waistband and pulled. I lifted my hips with a keening moan and she moved, lower and lower until I was completely naked, at rapt attention before her.

"There," she crooned, "Better? Yes. Much better." She stood and shimmied out of her own knickers.

She swiveled her hips ever so slightly; and I lost it again. 

I clutched at her waist. "On me," I croaked, "now."

She mounted my legs once again, undulating her hips back and forth upon me, working me into a renewed frenzy. I snatched the back of her neck and took her lips with mine, my tongue licking the inside of her lower lip. 

I hissed, the sound of it echoing into her mouth when she lowered herself upon me; taking me completely by surprise. 

I pushed my hand up into her hair, and curled my other arm around her waist, holding her in place, holding her still, holding her fast, as I thrust up into her and retreated back, up and back, up and back, up and up and up and back, back, back and she rolled her hips, twisting her body around me. 

"Uhnnnnnngg, Tom."

She wriggled against me again, and I twisted. I lifted her up, still inside her, turned, and threw her bodily down upon the sofa, tenting my arms over her. I smashed my mouth down upon hers, humming against her skin, thrusting my tongue in and out of her lips as I continued to thrust below.

She whined, her breath forced out in small "he he he he he" noises with each movement I made. She ran her short, blunt fingernails down my back and grabbed my arse with both hands, and I was done.

I lost my sight. Everything went dark, my eyes squeezed together as they were. Eyes shut so tight that I saw stars. I did see stars. 

So many stars.

There came a delicious ache low down in my body, curling and winding its way up, through every inch of my flesh, I felt it in my abdomen, the sweet, sweet poison spreading to my legs, my arms, my face. My chest burned. Breath came short and shallow and rapid. I sucked air, hissing through my teeth as my hips moved of their own accord.

The rest... is silence.....

Or perhaps, not so silent.

"Aargh! Oh, God!" Every muscle, every sinew in my body shook violently, control gone, muscles wonderfully tight. My fingers curled against the velvet, bent at the first knuckle, crushing the nap of it back and forth as I sought out that one little bit of sensation that would send me over. 

I didn't need it. Gabby squeezed my arse again, arched her back, and...and... and... Jesus!

I cried out, an inhuman wail that forced out whatever air was left in my body. All senses were lost in that amazing moment. Sight had flown from me; smell, touch, everything gone. 

Dead for a ducat. Dead.

And then a relaxation, a release... a freedom. "Aaaaaah. Oh. Ah."

I opened my eyes. 

A light. A bright light. 

A beautiful light in the form of a woman, her flesh soft and supple beneath me. "Gabby," I lifted my body from hers, the air tickling my rapidly cooling skin. "Oh, Christ. You've killed me. Done me in." 

She grinned up at me, and stroked my face, trailing her fingers down my neck and over my shoulders. "Le petit mort," she commented. 

I chuckled, breathily, working my own touch over the outside of her leg. "Oh, yes. Yes it was. Definitely was that. I think, though, that it was more than just a little death."

"You die so prettily," she winked. "No wonder Ken picked you to play Hamlet."

"Simple as it sounds, dying's not such an easy thing to do," I said.

"Yeah it is," Gabby replied, her voice suddenly dark, sad, distant; her eyes just that much hollow. "Dying is very easy, in fact. You just let go," she said, almost wistfully. "It's much, much easier than fighting to keep your life. Fighting to live in the face of dying." 

"Now... that?" she whispered. "That's bloody hard."


	22. El Toro - One Shot - NC17

El Toro

I tucked my new script under my arm, balancing two empty wine glasses in my hand, a half-empty package of chocolate hob-nobs in the other and a full bottle of Riesling I'd rescued from Gabby's fridge under the other arm. 

Bare-footed, bare-chested, and pyjama-bottom clad, I padded across the hickory wood floor of Gabby's living room, turned, and plopped my arse down upon her sofa. I sank deeply into the brown leather, eliciting a satisfying creak, a little puff of air, and an irritated huff from the woman beside me.

Gabby was nose deep in a copy of a book called... um...

"What's that you're reading?" I asked.

"Kirk's Fire Investigation," she answered, absently.

Ah. Yes. There. Kirk's Fire Investigation. 

"Sounds serious." I commented. 

"Mmm hmm. Serious."

Not looking up from the tome upon her lap, she made room for me to sit. She scooped up a loose pile of photographs beside her, shuffling them in toward her legs; themselves folded in a quasi-lotus position upon the sofa. 

Gabby, you see, was in her usual Sunday evening cocoon -- sofa, blanket round the shoulders, red shorty pyjamas (mee-ow!), and a massive birds' nest of documents: white papers, bound publications, opened books, photographs, charts, graphs, test results, an iPad, her new iPhone (I finally got her to get rid of the ruddy Android) and her Mac computer. 

I set my culinary burden down, the wine goblets singing out with a musical 'ping' upon the thick tempered glass of the sofa table. I worked the cork out of the Riesling, squeaking it back and forth against the bottle glass, releasing it with a soft 'pop.' 

I poured a helping of the golden stuff for myself, and then held the bottle over the other glass. I glanced at Gabby. "Wine?"

"Wha? Oh. Uh huh, yes, wine, please," she mumbled. She bridged the book open upside down upon her lap, and picked up yet another one; this time one called NFPA 921 Guide for Fire and Explosion Investigations. "... now where's that bit about ...," she murmured, her words sounding something like "vectors," and "spoliation" and "negative corpus," and some other jargoney things I couldn't possibly understand.

I poured for her, picked up the glass and held it by the stem in front of her. Her eyes flicked briefly to it, and then refocused upon that NFPA thingy. Without looking, she reached out and grasped the goblet. "Thanks," she muttered, and brought the drink to her lips; once again, not looking away from the pages of the overlarge paperback.

"My pleasure, love." I lifted my own glass, leaned over and clinked mine against hers. "Cheers."

"Yeah, uh huh, cheers," she lifted her glass half-heartedly, picked up the Kirk's book again, and mumbled something about some guy named DeHaan being a fucking blithering American idiot.

Can't say I didn't try. 

Resigned, I picked up my script, set my feet up on the table, adjusted the blanket behind me, leaned against the sofa back, and started reading the story to myself.

"UNICEF asked me to narrate a film of Ferdinand the Bull," I told Gabby.

She pulled her nose from her book, looked over at me and smiled. "Brilliant! That's one of my favourites. What's it for?"

"For schools, in countries they support. They're doing it in something like twenty languages, and they asked me to do the English version." I opened the script. "It's a great honour, and I want to do it right."

"Then, love," Gabby loooked back at her book, "you'd best get crackin'."

And so, my friends, Gabby and I fell into this familiar, wonderful, companionable Sunday silence. 

Well, silence with the exception of her paper shuffling, wine slurping, biscuit munching, computer tapping, and muttering; myself mumbling the words of the story under my breath, hearing them in my mind's ear, toying with different accents and voices, sussing out the right pauses and inflections and tones necessary to best convey the story.

After some time, I felt Gabby shift upon the sofa. She transferred the pile of glossy photographs to the table, unwound her legs, and shuffled over so that she sat right beside me; her shoulder touching mine, her leg against mine, her Mac perched in her lap.

I smiled, bent, and kissed her atop the head. "All going well?" I asked as I peered at the computer screen. As always, I understood absolutely nothing of what she was doing, and in this case, she was looking at digital photographs of some sort of blackened, fire damaged ... whatzit. 

"As well as it can be," she replied, tapping, scrolling and clicking away on the trackpad. "You?"

"As well as it can be." I mimicked, smiled, and went back to the script. I grabbed my pencil from behind my ear and made a few notes in the margin, writing things like "stay bright with the mother's voice" and "child-like" and "two-beat pause" and "shift in focus here."

Finished with that page, I let my left hand fall beside me, landing atop Gabby's right knee. I gave her a little squeeze.

She, in her turn, grasped my hand, squeezing me right back. 

I smiled into my script.

She smiled into her computer screen.

All was well.

I dropped my hand back down to her knee. I found myself making little curlicue patterns upon her bare skin, working my fingers this way and that, feeling the little end-of-day nubbins of hair that grew there, along with the burgeoning goose flesh just beneath her knee. 

She sighed.

I pulled my hand back to turn the page of my script. I kept it there, once again grasping my pencil and making more notes about the pronounciation of words like, "banderilleros" and "picadores."

I was quite deep in thought, considering how best to vocalise the Matador, when there was a swift, quick shift in weight beside me. 

I heard an inhale and a chuckle.

Then, I felt a quite pleasant breath, a dampness, and a soft, lingering warmth at my neck; the scent of citrus shampoo in my nose, the brush of messy hair against my jawline. 

The sensations... they made me clench in a very inappropriate place whilst reading through a story designed to be read to small children.

But... wait. What the hell was that? Did she just...?

"Did you... did you just lick me?" I turned, startled, to Gabby, who was once again sat up straight, eyes scrutinising the computer screen.

"Who, me?" Gabby asked, innocently, still focused on the computer, yet grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Randy little bint." I wiped my neck and laughed. 

She shrugged. 

I glared.

But she still didn't look up.

Cute, but I'd let it slide.

This time.

Gabby and I went back to our respective work. Gabby to her computer, me considering how best to narrate the bee-sting scene. When I got to the part about Ferdinand dancing round and the men jumping for joy, there was another tilt in the sofa cushions beside me. 

I felt a brush of skin against my shoulder, softness against my face, and then a gentle puff of warm air in my aural canal.

"Aah!" I quickly threw my script upside down over my twitching groin, at the same time clapping a hand to my left ear.

And once again, when I cast a glance down at Gabby, she appeared to be hard at her work. This time, she was sifting through a stack of photographs depicting rulers and burnt parts and numbered cards.

"You blew in my ear!" I said, accusingly. "What'd you do that for?"

She shrugged, casually. "Felt like it." She turned slightly away, picked up another stack of photos and rooted through that pile. 

"You felt like it." I said, incredulously.

"I felt like it," she responded, still engrossed in her work.

"How'm I supposed to work with all your licking and blowing in my ear?"

"You seem to be doing just fine," she said, off-handedly.

I grumbled. "Fine enough without you molesting me."

"You want me to not lick you or blow in your ear?" She asked, off-handedly.

"Yes, please."

"Hm, okay," she intoned, picking up her iPad. "No problem."

"Hm." I repeated, lifting my script and pencil and -- once again -- going back to work. I flipped a few pages and continued reading, committing the words to memory as best I could.

Every once in a while stealing a glance at Gabby. 

Just to make sure she stayed put.

But she didn't.

Gabby stirred again beside me, turned her body toward mine, and lay her arm across my chest. She leaned in against me, her eyes upon a small photograph in her hand. She hummed, pleasantly; and I hummed back, stroking her hair.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"Just laying here," she replied. "Studying a photo."

"Is that all?" 

"Yep," she yawned, "that's all."

"Good, then."

"Good." 

I smiled, sighed, and lay my head back upon the sofa cushions. I let my script droop in my hand. My eyes fluttered closed. Her warmth against me was comforting, calming. I felt my breathing become regular and steady. 

Peaceful. 

Aaah. Yes. Lovely.

Until...

...Gabby turned her head, smiled against my chest, and proceeded to pull my nipple into her mouth, lick it, and roll it about on her tongue. 

"Gah! Gabby!" I gasped, bucking my hips off the sofa.

What was worse, is that she accompanied her attack upon my breast tissue with an ever so tiny, ever so subtle moan from the back of her throat. 

What was even worse than that? Could there have been more? Yes. Oh yes. 

Along with that nipple slip? Simultaneous to that libidinous brush of her hot tongue against my sensitive flesh?

The little hussy fucking grabbed my arse!

Hard!

She made my goolies itch. Seriously, no joke. They itched. They itched and my cock twitched. Jesus!

I sat up, swiftly, and slammed the script onto the table. I whirled to face Gabby, with full intent to grab her by the back of the neck and kiss the shit out of her, but when I did...

... she was sat back up -- right back to work; this time focused upon what looked like some sort of thick chemical analysis type document.

Jesus Christ! What the fuck!

I pushed myself upon the edge of the sofa, braced my elbows upon my knees and glowered at her. "What'd you do that for?"

She shrugged, still looking at the goddamn report. She licked her finger and turned the page. "Do what, love?"

"You know bloody well what," I pointed frantically at my chest. "You... you did that thing! That thing with... with your... your mouth on my... my nipple!" I ranted. "And on top of all that... on top of all that, you took a great handful of my arse! That and you licked about my neck and blew in my goddamn ear! That's what you did, and you bloody well know it."

"Huh? What'd I do?" She flipped another page.

I made a grab for the stapled sheaf but she pulled it away, deftly. 

Oh, so that's it, yeah? She wanted to play? I'd play. Oh yes, oh yes, I'd play.

This time, I'd get her. 

Two could play at that game.

Seeing red behind my eyes, and not just from her pyjamas, I growled, deep in my chest, huffed air through my nose, and dove at her; head low, hands ready to grab, mouth ready to attack the succulent flesh of her breasts, when...

Damn her!

She stood up quickly yet casually, nose still in her report, and took two steps away from the sofa.

Well, as you may expect, Gabby's sudden departure left me no option but to fall awkwardly and haphazardly upon the sofa cushions, my arms sprawled out, face smacked flat against the leather. "Bugger! Ouch!" 

Papers, photos, books; they all went blooey, flying about the room, floating or clattering to the floor.

"Bollocks!"

"Oh, goodness," Gabby tutted, "look what you did to all of my work! Everything was in perfect order, everything where I wanted it, and now it's all cocked up. Thanks a lot, Tom!"

"What?" I lifted my head, snorted, and hissed through grit teeth. I menaced at her, my lower jaw thrust out. "You...little...," I pointed, pushing myself back up to a sitting position. "You just....you... just..." I jabbed my finger at her, driving my oh so eloquent point home. "Just...ugh!"

She shrugged. "Okay. Me. I'll just. Just." The wicked thing grinned at me. 

I growled.

Gabby sauntered back to the sofa and set, yet again, to work. This time, instead of sitting down, she gathered the papers, photos, computer, books, and other detritus and lay them in neat, careful stacks upon the table. At the same time, I, still huffing angrily, buried my nose in the script, trying to work on a new page, trying to commit the words to memory. 

She'd not do that again, I was sure of it. There was no way.

Once again, I relaxed, confident the playtime was over. I curled my legs beneath me, folding into a lotus position. I picked up my glass and sipped happily at the sweet German wine, the floral-scented liquor warming and yes... once again calming me. 

I took a deep, satisfied breath. 

I'd won.

Gabby, having finished her clean up job, picked up her empty wine glass, and headed in the direction of the kitchen...

... only to bend and press her hand hard against my cock as she passed by, giving my balls a little squeeze -- and of course driving me muy loco once again.

"Aah, oh, Jesus!" I jumped, involuntarily tossing the script to the floor beside me. I reached out a hand to grasp her arm, upsetting the wine glass, sloshing Riesling all down my hardening front, over my pyjama trousers. "Bugger me!" It seeped down beneath, through my open legs to wet my bum. "Fuck, Gabby!" I bellowed. "Will you please stop doing that shit!"

"What shit, love?" She called from the kitchen. She turned on the tap and apparently was now washing out her wine goblet. "What shit am I doing, Tom?"

Enough! Es bastante!

I bolted from the sofa, stomping my feet upon the wood floor as I rose. My bottoms stuck uncomfortably to my skin, the fabric having become transparent over my tightening groin. I pulled to free the cloth out of my arse crack. "Damn it all." I pounded into the kitchen, grasped Gabby by the shoulder and turned her around to face me. "Oi, you!"

"Oh!" She gaped at me, blinking a false innocence. "Me?"

I pointed downward, and her eyes lit upon my soaking wet trousers. "This shit," I pointed again. "This shit, stop doing this shit, please!"

Gabby cocked her head (damn her I wanted to take her right then and there...), her brow furrowed and lips pursed, nose scrunched up in puzzlement. "You're a bit wet, Tom," she said, matter-of-factly, "better see to that before you get a chafing."

And with that, she turned back to the sink; turned her back to me. She picked up a towel and proceeded to dry the glass. 

As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't been teasing me relentlessly for the past thirty minutes. As if....

Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ with a goddamn tree hugging, flower-sniffing arse of a bull gone bloody mad from a bee sting como un hijo de puta!

I remained behind her, breathing heavily, shoulders heaving, fists balled at my side, toes tapping a mad tattoo upon the hardwood. "Chafing," I seethed, sucking air through my teeth. "I've a chafing all right and it's not from wine spilt upon my trousers, I'll have you know."

She shrugged and grinned at me over her shoulder. "Well, then, love. There's anti-itch cream in the loo. Best use it now before it gets worse."

Ay, dios mio! Last straw.

I took a calming breath. "I'll just... go back into the sitting room, then," I crossed my hands behind my back, and took two backwards steps. I may have even whistled a bit. "I'll just, go, work on my script a while, then."

"You do that," she said, her back still turned to me.

"I'll just, go have another glass of wine."

"Okay."

"I'll be going now."

"Fine."

Her back was still to me. I stood at the edge of the kitchen. I peered round the divider wall. 

I called her name, "Gabs, love?"

"Yes?" She turned.

I lowered my head and charged, nearly full speed at her. I scooped her up over me, over my left shoulder. Her head and arms dangled down my back, her legs at my front. "Aha! Grrrr. Yes! Gotcha!"

"Tom!" She screamed, dropping the tea towel on to the floor. I kicked it aside. "Tom! Oh my god! Put me down!"

"No!" I said, childishly. "Nope. Not a chance." I grunted, smacking her arse. She howled indignantly. "Cry all you want, luvvie."

Damn but she was heavy with muscle. I hitched her back up on my shoulder, grasping her one-armed around her thighs. She kicked out at me, her prosthetic nearly clocking me one in the face.

Couldn't have that.

She kicked again, and I grasped her prosthetic by the ankle joint. "This has to go before someone gets hurt." I pushed the little button releasing the suction, and pulled it off. 

"Tom, you arse!" she protested. "Put that back on! That's not fair play!"

"All's fair now, love. You saw to that." She growled and smacked my bum. "Where we're going, you won't be needing it anyway." I groaned. "Ugh, Gabby you're a sack." 

"Shut up!" She scratched me, hard, on the back. It felt bloody good, and it only served to spur me on. "Put me the fuck down, Thomas William!"

"No dice, Gabrielle Leigh." I stepped into the hallway, lumbering toward Gabby's bedroom. "Gah, Gabby!" She'd spanked me again. I pushed the door open with my foot.

Another spank. "Ooh, do that again, love, and I'm yours forever."

"Bloody fucking pervert!" she screamed. "Bloody fucking pervert, put me down!" She kicked with her right leg, nearly making contact with my inflamed centre. "You have to put me down sometime, and when you do, I'll kill you!"

Thank God there was laughter in her voice. 

I stumbled into the room. She pinched me. In retaliation, I turned my head and sank my teeth into the bit of arse flesh peeking out beneath her shorts. "Bastard!" She cried out. I licked the skin, soothing the bite.

She sighed. I licked her again, moaning against her. She went a little bit limp. 

"Better?" I brushed my arm down her thighs, caught her behind the knees and shifted my weight forward, tossing her bodily upon the bed. She bounced once, twice, three times, her hands thrown out up above her head.

I tented my body over her, up on my knees, my hardened cock hovering over her, rubbing my wine-soaked trousers into her satin-covered sex with every movement. "Even better." I answered my own question. "Much better."

She growled and squirmed beneath me. "Arsehole."

"You love it."

I let my fingers caress the soft, silky underside of her arms, down over her oxters, down to her breasts as I straightened back up. She moaned, her head lolling to the side. She licked her lips and rolled her pelvis against me. "Aah, Tom."

I grasped the bottom of her bright red camisole with both hands, yanking it violently up over her head. I used the bit of fabric to bind her wrists, jerking it tight, holding her prisoner. 

She tugged against it, I twisted and secured it further.

She glared up at me, her breathing erratic, her cheeks bright red, her eyes, wide, piercing, glossed over... a bit frightening. She huffed, yet she calmed. 

Couldn't have that. I didn't want her calm. I wanted her fight. I wanted her fierce. 

And I wanted her, fiercely.

"Te quiero. Te quiero ahoramismo." I bolstered my hold upon the red fabric, gathering it my hand, and fell upon her. Red was all I could see. Her red lips were all I wanted. I taunted her with my own lips, my banderillero tongue piercing through her firm-set mouth; weakening her resolve, bleeding her ardour until she gave in and opened to me. 

I moaned into her, and she echoed the sound back to me; like the rapt, attentive crowd in Una Plaza de Toros.

She nipped at my upper lip. In retaliation, I bit down upon her bottom one, goring her flesh, drawing blood like would one of the picadores in el tercio de varas. She snorted wildly and shook her head, pulling away. I recaptured her, moving against her lips in measured, neatly choreographed waves. I was tempting her to charge, stirring her zeal, testing out her mettle, infuriating and energising her before going in for la estocada....

The mortal thrust.

Ole!

I pulled back, licking my lips, tasting the mix of sweet, flowery wine and the slight, coppery tang of her blood in my mouth. I sighed.

"Wanker," she said, breathily, steadily, her chest rising and falling, her eyes burning green fire. 

Yet, there was a hint of a smile. I saw it. I loved it. 

"Your own fault." I winked. "All that teasing, all that playing innocent, and what did it get you? Hm? Love? This, perhaps?" I bent and took her breast into my mouth, pulling not-so-gently upon the flesh with my tongue. She whimpered, arching her back into me. 

"Tom, please."

"That incessant, relentless, bloody teasing," I repeated, "Do you want to know what it got you?" 

"Tell me, Tom," she strained at her bonds and growled, her teeth bared. "Tell me. Now."

"You play with the bull, Gabrielle, you get the horns."

***

.


	23. Out of the Ashes - One Shot - NC17 (drug use reference)

Out of the Ashes

“Gabs? Gabs, love, I’m home.” 

“In the back bedroom, Tom!” I called back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, poopsie, was I too loud for your little ears?” I smiled, bent and reached down into the cot, cradling and hefting the teensy-tiny pink bundle of a little girl up into my arms. She curved instantly against my breast, head on my shoulder, rounded little bum and bent legs curled up atop my forearm. 

 

“Hey, Miss Chickie. Your papa’s here!” I whispered.

I heard Tom’s footfalls shuffle down the carpeted hallway. “How’s the little bumpkin?” He appeared in the doorway, smiling broadly. He stepped in beside me and ran a gentle hand over the baby’s dark, black, stick-it-up-everywhere-it-wanted-to-go hair. “Hey, baby.” He cooed, and kissed the top of her head. Tom then turned and planted a similar kiss upon my own head, snaking an arm around my waist. His kisses continued down my temple to my ear, my neck, my shoulder, my….

“Oi! Yeah, you two! You go and get yerselves a bluidy room there, why don’t ya now.” My cousin Jonathan’s partner, James, held his hands out toward me. “Give me wee bitty girl here now, and I’ll just be on my way, and you lot can canoodle all you like.”

“Oh, do I have to? I don’t want to give her up, she’s so warm!” I turned away a bit, squeezing his and Jonathan’s daughter, Masaiya, closer to me. Sai wriggled, wiggled, and nuzzled into my neck.

“Oh, yes you bluidy well do. Jonny’d tan my hide if I don’t come home with the wee sprite.” James wrapped his hands around the middle of the little bundle and pulled, gently. “Come to papa, then, luvvie.” She squirmed and cooed, turned in James’ loving arms, and fell happily against her papa’s shoulder. “Time to go home and see daddy, my bonnie lass. Thanks for watchin' her, Gabs.”

"My absolute pleasure."

James bounced little Sai gently, turned, and walked out the guest room door.   
I follwed after, but Tom stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. “Hey, there,” he purred, “come here.” He pulled me to him, gripped the back of my head, just beneath my ponytail, and pressed his lips to mine. He opened to me, and I took advantage. 

Until I tasted it.

“Tom?” 

“What?”

“When…when did you eat chocolate?”

Tom pulled back, grinned wickedly, and winked. “Just now. I hope you weren’t saving those brownies for something else.”

“You didn’t.” My jaw dropped and my eyes went wide. I covered my mouth with my cupped hand. “Tell me you didn’t have any of those that were on the kitchen table by James’ stuff.”

Tom bit his bottom lip, and raised his eyebrows, looking suddenly very, very sheepish. “I did,” he confessed. He grit his teeth in a shameful grimace. “Were they off limits?”

“Oh, fucking hell. James!” I called out, walking briskly down the hall, into the corridor, toward the front door. “James! Are you still here?”

“Oh, aye,” James replied, Sai in the carrier, the diaper bag slung over his shoulder, and the plastic bag of brownies hanging from his fingers. “What’s amiss, then?”

I pointed to the poly bag. “Tom ate one.”

James’ face went comically blank for a moment. Then, he quirked an eyebrow. Then his shoulders hunched, and his face contorted and twisted into a moue of hilarity. James’ breath came out with a wheezing, exploding, pounding, bout of laughter. “Oh, fucking Christ, that’s funny!” He shook his head, chuckles erupting here and there. He inspected the bag, counting as he did so. “He didna have one, Gab, he had two!”

Tom’s head shot back and forth between James and myself, like he was watching a Wimbledonmatch. “What’d I do? What the fuck are you two on about?”

“Tom. Tom, Thomas. My good, good friend,” James clapped a hand upon Tom’s shoulder, giving him a friendly squeeze. “Tom, you…” James bent double with a squeal of laughter again, still clinging to Tom’s arm. 

“What?” Tom looked to me. “Who are they for? What’s the problem?”

I just shrugged my shoulders. “You and your bloody sweet tooth,” I sighed.

“The problem, Tom,” James said, once he’d composed himself, “the problem is these…” he shook the bag, “I confiscated these, just today, just up the road there, and I was goin’ to bring them to the station on my way back home. I couldna just leave ‘em in the squad car by law, I had to keep the evidence wi’me, but you… you ate my bloody evidence.”

“Evidence? I…” I could just about see the little hamster wheel turning inside Tom’s head. He’d sussed it out, brilliant man that he was. “Oh, shit. Did I just…?” He cringed, dramatically, and huffed a long breath of air. “Did I just eat space cake?”

“Yes,” James and I said in unison.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell was in there?” Tom smacked a hand to his forehead, dragging it down over his eyes, where he squeezed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What did I just dose on?”

James said, “Well, luvvie, from what I ken of the laddies I took those from, it’s some right bluidy good shit. Nothing trashy, dinna fash. Could be THC, could be shrooms, acid, I honestly dinna ken. But these boys, they know their shit, they do. S’nothing bad, I’m certain. Expensive shit, yeah. They’re Chelsea boys, don’cha know.”

“Fuck,” Tom’s lips and jaw worked, his brow thunderous. “Now what?”

James hefted Sai’s carrier. “Well, for one thing I’d best get Sai the hell out of here afore she sees ya.” He cracked a smile. “You should maybe go to hospital.”

“No.” Tom spat. “If I go to hospital in that condition, the shit will hit the fan!”

“Or the fans will hit the shit,” I joked, which earned me an angry glare from my future husband. “I suppose you’ll just have to ride it out, won’t you? Any plans for going anywhere tonight?”

Tom sighed, resignedly. “Guess not now.”

“Phone 999 if he loses consciousness,” James instructed, “but he didna have much. I ken generally what these lads use. There’s naught too horrid in these babies, but Tom’ll be well moagered for a bit. No worries. He’ll be fit like soon enough.” 

“No worries? James, I’m full of worries.” Tom confessed.

“Well, laddie,” James opened the door and squeezed through. Before he closed the door behind him he said, “you just be sure to sit ye back, and enjoy your trip.”

“Maybe you’d better sit down,” Gabby said, concerned. “Eat something substantial. Perhaps it’ll lessen the effects a bit.”

“No. No, I… I think I’ll…yeah, I’ll just sit for a bit.” I crossed over to the sofa and fell upon it, the leather eliciting a loud creak and a hiss of air. “How long is it supposed to take to feel anything?” I worked the pads of my fingers against the cowhide, testing out my senses. “I mean, how fucking stupid am I?”

“You’re not stupid, love, you just can’t keep your hands off the choccies.” Gabby sat beside me, her leg curled up against me, her fingers stroking up and down my bare arm. “Do you feel anything yet?”

I let my eyes wander the room. Everything looked normal. Nothing moved, the walls didn’t breathe; the little individual fibres of the carpeting didn’t stand up, partner off, and start to dance the tango. The paintings didn’t jump off the walls and twirl in mid-air. I inhaled, sharply, and exhaled upon puffed cheeks. “Nothing.”

“Good, maybe you won’t then.” Gabby laid her head upon my shoulder. “Maybe it was just a false alarm.” She snuggled in closer to me, set her arm across my chest, and I sighed with it. 

“False alarm. Maybe.”

I was just about to wind my arm about her shoulders when I suddenly felt… something. It felt as if she – as if Gabby -- were melting into my body. As if her head were falling through the flesh of my shoulder, as if… if I were to look down upon her I’d see part of her head missing, consumed by and subsumed within my own body. 

I froze. I tensed. I swallowed. “Um… um, Gabby?”

She moved her hand a little, and it, too, felt like it was becoming part of my own arm, as if her hand were disappearing inside my bicep. “Oh, shit. That’s not good. Oh, no. Nope. Not good at all.”

“What, love?” 

“I think…” and at that very moment, I suddenly became very, very dizzy. Very dizzy indeed, and I seemed to have lost all ability to focus my vision on anything. “I think…oh, Christ, I think its working.”

Tom looked terrible. Terrible, yet beautiful; altered, like I’d never seen him before. 

I was fascinated. Truly. Strange, right? Bizarre, but I guess I’m morbid that way.

I’d seen Tom drunk a hundred thousand times, and when he was in that state, he just kind of sort of turned into this adorable mush of an idiot who slurred his speech, talked too loudly, laughed obnoxiously, and couldn’t for the fucking life of him pronounce certain words like: Audi, or microphone, or warehouse, or his favourite word, discombobulate.

But that time, that time it was very different. 

I mean, the bloke was pale to begin with, having just come off an extremely stressful and tragic role where he had to stay out the sun and colour his hair straw blond again; but I mean he looked as if he’d suddenly lost all of his blood – he was… ashen, I think is the word Tom’d use – no, something more poetic, like…like wan. 

His breathing was very rhythmic, very regular – he sounded like he did when he slept a sound sleep, only without the clicking behind his nose or the light snoring. In spite of the sweat slowly beading upon his forehead, he looked utterly and completely relaxed. Not a care in the world. 

On holiday by mistake in his mind. 

Maybe this was a good thing, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, he needed it.

His head fell back, heavily upon the sofa cushion. Tom’s jaw went completely slack, mouth slightly open and half-cocked in a rather stupid looking smile with no teeth showing. His eyes were half-mast, roving over everything in our sitting room, but catching sight of nothing. 

In short, he looked stoned off his fucking rocker.

“Tom?” I waved a hand in front of his face, back and forth. 

He giggled like a child, grin widening, his tongue poking up beneath his top teeth. His hand flailed, grasping for my hand, but missing wildly, making him press his head back into the pillows and laugh all the more.

“Oh, God. Ooooooooh, fuck, but this is so good, Gabby. So good.” Tom enunciated. There was no slur in his voice, just a very distinct hollowness. A distance, a slowness; like he was talking through a plate glass window. He let his hands fall back down to his sides, palms upward, heavy, yet weightless near his thighs. The rapid-fire bouncing of his right knee, his heel pistoning against the ball of his foot, betrayed this relaxation above.

I touched his arm, squeezing the muscle, thinking that some sort of physical contact would anchor him back into this world.

I only made it worse.

“You’re melting,” he commented, eyes closed, calm as calm can be. “Push harder and you’ll lose it.”

“What will I lose, love?” I pressed my hand harder into his arm.

“Ah, ha…see? See?” He twisted in the seat, pointing at my hand. His eyes roved, rapidly over my face, but never landed upon my eyes. “See, there. There! Feel that.” He poked at his arm. “It’s gone. Your hand. Gone. It’s just gone. You’re…you’re part of me now.” Tom’s voice was awestruck, ominous. “Oh, Gabby, oh! Just feeeeeeeeeel that.”

“I am, love.” I grinned, trying desperately to keep my laughter at bay. 

“Come here,” he ordered, grasping my other arm. “Come. Come here. Stand in front of me, please. Please. Don’t let go!” He warned. “Don’t let go! You can’t let go, you can’t ever, ever, ever, never ever let go.” He shook his head on each ‘ever’. “But come here. I want you here. Right. Here.” 

He shifted me so I stood right in front of him, directly between his legs. He released me, and held his hands up, palms facing toward me, as if he were making sure I’d stay put. 

“What do you want me to do, Tom?” I still had hold of his arm. 

The sensation of her hand buried in my flesh was one of the most incredible things I’d ever felt in my entire life. Ever. And I wanted more of it. I wanted all of it.

I wanted to feel all of Gabby melt into me. 

I know it’s strange, and a bit perverted, and slightly sci-fi, but it’s what I needed right then and there, and in the state I was in, I was going to have it. There was no question about it.

“Be naked for me,” I begged her, “please, I need you to be naked for me.”

Gabby stood there, and from what I was able to actually see of her, as most of my vision was blurred beyond recognition, she was breathing heavily, her eyes wide, blushing a very bright flame red as if painted with a master’s brush all over her body; a blush that I found incredibly alluring, radiant, and beautiful.

There was so much about Gabby that I found beautiful right in that moment. 

I pulled my t-shirt off, letting it hang against Gabby’s hand, which I thought, in a strange deep down sort of way, had become permanently attached to my arm, and I was so incredibly happy with it that way. She, in turn, worked her shirt open, twisting at the buttons one-handed, and the sight of her hand moving that way left little vapour trails in my vision, such that when she finally finished undoing the last button it was if there were not one, but five hands working in front of me.

I shook my head to clear it, and thankfully, the extra hands disappeared, wafting into the ether. 

I reached down to work at my jeans, but fumbled terribly with the buttons. “Help me,” I beseeched her, and she complied. 

“Of course.”

Time seemed to whiz by at the same time it moved incredibly slowly, and after this that and the other thing, I was without my clothes save for the t-shirt that hung from my arm, and Gabby was blissfully nude save for the button-down that hung from her forearm.

Because, you know, we were still attached.

But I wanted her attached to me somewhere else besides my arm.

“Now what?” Gabby titled her head, damn her, oh damn damn damn d…damn her… and… and… that was so wicked and evil of her to do that because when she does that I just… its so bloody sexy and it drives me fucking mad, and it drove me mad, and I lost it. 

“On me. Now.” I grabbed for her waist and clutched her, almost shaking her like a rag doll between my legs. “I want your body on mine.”

Tom demanded that I straddle him, that I crawl atop him, and I did so, gladly. 

He sighed, happily, roving his hands over my shoulders and my back. I did manage to stealthily let go of his arm long enough to shake the discarded clothing from my arm. 

Tom’s face was… what’s the word he’d use? Beatific? Yeah, beatific. His cock responded just as worshipfully, and he canted his hips against me, moaning deep in his chest with the movement. 

“Gabrielle…ma belle, Gabrielle,” he sang, his voice a thick-tongued whisper. “You’re melting into me again. It feels… it feels so perfect, so good, so good. I’m always the one inside you,” he groaned, “come inside me this time.”

I shifted myself and sank down upon his hardened flesh. I figured I couldn’t give him in reality what he was looking for, a joining of our bodies in his hallucinogenic state, but I could at least join our bodies in the traditional way. 

“Ahhhhh, oh.” Tom sighed, his eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling back into his head, his cheeks pulling up into an open mouthed, rapturous grin. I leaned forward, intending to lay my chest upon his, to press my mouth to his, but he stopped me. “No. Not… Not ready. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

I told Gabby wasn’t ready to completely join with her yet. There was something else I wanted to do, first.

I let my fingers dance across the wing-shaped scars on her back, their texture feeling new, different beneath my fingertips. I’d never felt them like this before. I experienced every detail, every line, every plateau, every crease, every… every feather.

Her scars transformed into soft, firm, flight feathers against my skin; and for some reason unknown to me, I became, not angry in the sense of anger itself, but perhaps -- disappointed. I suddenly felt as if Gabby had been keeping things from me; holding back something beautiful, something amazing from me for all this time. “Why have you never showed them to me?”

“I showed you my scars the first day I met you, Tom,” she replied, confused. She moved, and her warmth shifted over my cock as well. It was strange and lovely, this being joined but not fucking. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

She moved again. I hissed; Gabby sighed, pressing herself back into my hands. I loosened my grip for fear that my own hands might sink into her flesh, like her thighs and hips had disappeared, crossing over into mine.

“Not what I meant,” I leaned forward and pressed open mouthed kisses along her jawline, my hands still working in utter amazement at what I was feeling on her back. “Your wings, you’ve never shown me your wings. All this time we’ve been together, you and I, and you’ve always kept them hidden from me, why?”

“Wings? What? I…I don’t have…” Gabby started, but I shook her a bit, quieting her. She wasn’t listening. Damn it. Why the hell wasn’t she listening to me?

“You do! I know you do. I can feel them, and now I want to see them. Show me. Show me, please. Now. I have to know.”

“I don’t know how,” I told Tom. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to show you what’s not…”

“Don’t tell me they’re not there.” I commanded. “Come on, Gabby. Please. Just spread them. Spread them wide for me, wide as they’ll go. I want to see them unfurled, in all their glory. Show me.” I implored her, digging my fingers into the flesh of her back, as if grasping at the wings, trying to prise them open myself… with my own hands. 

“I’ll try,” she responded.

Results. She was finally cooperating. Yes.

Yes, and…what I saw amazed me. 

Tom’s face went absolutely blank, gobsmacked, as he stared into the empty air behind my left shoulder. I turned and looked where his eyes were pointed, but I saw nothing. 

Obviously, I saw nothing. Duh. He was hallucinating again.

Tom’s grip tightened on my torso, and he gasped; a long, ragged, high-pitched draw of breath. He gasped and his nearly black, blown-pupiled eyes went incredibly wide, his eyebrows lost in the blond curls of hair flopping down over his forehead. His mouth went slack. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his voice reedy, his words rapid-fire and staccato. “Does it hurt? Will it hurt? Will I burn? Will I burn if I… if I touch them?”

Somewhere in the back of my head I knew damn well Gabby’s wings were just an illusion of my mind; they were only phantasms, mirages. 

I knew that none of what I was seeing was real, that the great, flaming, clockwork and leather wings were simply the creation of this neurochemical and that neurotransmitter flooding through, over, and around the axons, neurons, and dendrites within the myelin-sheathed nerves in my brain. I knew Gabby’s wings were figments of my overactive imagination, yet there they were.

And they were aflame.

And they were one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen.

“No, Tom. You won’t burn,” Gabby reassured me. “You can… you can touch them.”

I reached up a shaking hand and felt along the line of fire originating from Gabby’s back. 

“So warm,” I observed, “so incredibly warm. It’s comforting, Gabby. It’s like home. I wish you could wrap me up in them and hold me forever.”

Tom’s words brought a heaviness to the back of my eyes, and I blinked rapidly against it, but his next words brought the tears full on.

“You see, love? I know what you are now,” his hands kept searching out in the air beside my shoulders, as if he were petting some imaginary animal. “I know. You can’t keep it a secret from me anymore, Gabrielle. These…,” he gestured toward where he saw… whatever it was he saw. Then he shook a lifted index finger slowly, labouriously, in the air in front of my face, “these aren’t angel’s wings. I’ve been wrong, I’ve been so very, very wrong, all this time.”

“What are they?” Gabby tilted her head again… damn her. I shifted my hips in an autonomic response to the sight of that, sighing with the sensation of her hot flesh once again upon mine. I still wanted that believe me, but there were more important things… more important wings… to deal with at the moment. She brushed her hand over my chest, and I shivered, despite the heat radiating from her. “Tell me,” she whispered, “tell me what you see, Tom.” 

“You… walked into the fire, Gabrielle,” Tom started, drawing his fingers across my cheek, splayed open down my throat, gathered again between my breasts, “you walked into the fire, straight into the fire, and you died there. You said you did once, die. You said that you knew what it was like to die. You said it was easier to let go and die than stay to live, but you stayed to live, didn’t you? You made that choice.”

I nodded, biting my bottom lip. 

“You were reborn from the fire. You were remade when you chose life, don’t you realise that? The fire, it gave you a clockwork leg so you could be stronger than anyone else. You’re clockwork. I’m quartz. And your exquisite scars and your clockwork wings. You got these wings from the fire when you were remade. Forged in the hearth of the very thing you fought. The very thing you hated so much, Gabby. You rose from the ashes a new creature, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I wasn’t sure how to take it, to be honest. It was strange, that was certain, and I still couldn’t understand why Tom was having such strong hallucinations just from a couple of laced up brownies, but I guessed it could happen. People react differently to these things, and Tom’s imagination was vivid and creative and rather bizarre to begin with.

Who was I to question?

I mean, how dare I even?

Tom curled his body forward, bowing his head, the crown of it pushed into the space between my breasts. 

I touched the back of his neck, gently, the tips of my fingers ghosting over the little bristles at his hairline. “Tom?”

“You’re so resplendent, Gabby. You terrify me.” He shook his head back and forth, his curls bristling over my tender skin, a wayward one brushing against a sensitive nipple, and I shivered. “You’re so beautiful, and I’m so unworthy of you. You’re…” he lifted his head, his face centimetres from my own, “you must be a phoenix. It’s the only thing that can explain what you are. I don’t know of anything else you can be.”

“I’m not,” I countered, “I’m not anything like that… I’m just Gabby, Tom, that’s all.”

She was lying, my altered brain told me. I tried desperately to focus my eyes upon hers. To tell her. To convince her. To make her understand that what I was telling her was true. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she never realised, and she needed to know.

I reached a hand up, gentling my fingers over her forehead, over her eyes -- her eyes that were like the surface of a calm lake, watery, clear, and the brownish-green of them peeking up through shimmery-glass. 

A crystal drop fell from the canthus of her left eye and I followed it, watched it glimmer and shimmer down her glowing cheek. 

A realisation. No, she shouldn’t cry. Her tears. Oh, God, her tears. “Oh, please don’t cry, not yet. Oh, bless you, love. Don’t. You’ll waste the tears.”

“Waste…?” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, and I grasped it up, bringing her to me. I set my mouth upon the tear-streaked skin and tasted saline. 

“Phoenix tears, Gabby. Don’t you know they’re magical?”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Tom’s hallucinations were becoming more and more fanciful and fucking insane, if you ask me, as time went on, yet I found that my heart pounded out a fierce tattoo, explosions and fireworks set off within my chest at every word. I felt my eyes grow heavier and heavier and finally they spilled hot tears out over my face, those tears which fell into the corners of my blubbering mouth, and down upon my quivering chin. 

The fucking bastard was making me cry. Him and his little drugged up stupid-arsed fancies were making me cry.

Phoenix tears, now. Off his rocker. Completely nutters.

Yet, absolutely lovely.

But, I wasn’t sure how much more I could take of it without completely losing my shit.

I pressed my hands against his chest and pushed back, lifting my hips off of his. He grasped me again, holding me firmly in place. “You can’t go. You’re part of me now. You’re mine. You’re my phoenix, my fire bird.”

“Tom, I….” He dropped a hand between our bodies and with this thumb, found that bundle of nerves at the top of my sex, and he knew, doped to all hell or not, that if he touched me there I’d not move until the time was right.

Arsehole. Stoned-arsed, sexy fuck of a fucking arsehole.

“I need you, please don’t leave me, phoenix." I begged her. "Don’t fly away yet.” My hand moved, seemingly of its own accord. In that rational part of my brain that remained behind after the chemicals took over, I knew that I could keep her there with my touch. “I’m so incredibly tired. I need you. I need you to heal me with your tears.”

“Heal… ah… ha… heal you?” Even stoned out of his mind Tom spoke in poetry, and I loved him for it. I loved him when he did that. I loved him when he did the other thing he was doing, too. Oh, did I love him for that. See, he worked his thumb in tight circles over my clitoris, and I, myself was transported. I didn’t even think he knew what he was doing, so focused as he was upon other, imaginary things, but oh, what he was doing. I wriggled atop him, gripping his shoulders and throwing my head back. “Oh, Christ, Tom!”

“Heal me,” I prayed; for it was a prayer. “I’m broken, Gabby, don’t you know that?” I felt the tips of her fingers slide, almost not there, over my cheek and into the aerials of my hair, and I leaned into her, trying in my altered state to push the palm of her hand into the flesh of my face, to join with her there as we were joined below. “I hurt when we’re apart.”

Tom’s words cut me to the core. This was Tom stripped down and laid bare, the hallucinogenic drugs making him say things in his state that he otherwise would keep close to the vest, in spite of his open and honest nature. 

Broken. 

Hurt. 

This was not the Tom I knew, but I did somehow suspect that that Tom was there, buried deep beneath. We all feel that way sometimes; and as bright and happy as Tom was, he certainly was no Pollyanna in rose coloured glasses.

“Tom,” I gripped him around the neck, trying to wake him, even a slight bit. “Tom, don’t do this. Please, please. Don’t say those things.”

“But I have to!” He thrust his cock up into me, hard, and I yelped. “I have to tell you so you can make me whole again.”

“You’re not broken, Tom,” I reassured him. “You’re not broken at all.”

“Oh, but I am, you see. I am. I’m broken when I’m not at home. I’m broken when people demand more of me than I can possibly give; when I disappoint, which seems to be so… so… so often of late. I try, so hard. I try so hard, Gabby, and sometimes my best isn’t good enough, and it hurts when… it's like, oh fuck. I can do nothing right.”

I sniffed and swallowed, exhaling a breath, blinking rapidly against the renewed flow of tears. I sank my teeth into my lower lip and breathed heavily through my nose. 

“Tom, please.” I pushed my fingers again through his blond curls and gripped the ends behind his head. “You… you could never disappoint.”

“Yes I can," I bit back, "and I do, and it’s the worst fucking feeling in the world. Oh, love, believe me I’m not complaining, I have… I have all I’ve ever wanted, and so much more. Yes, I know… I know I’m one of the luckiest men on this planet, but sometimes,” I set my forehead against Gabby’s chest, feeling the sensation of my skull sinking into her ribs; my head, my brain, my mind uniting with her heart, “sometimes I just need a little bit of healing.”

“Heal me, please,” he begged, gripping my upper arms, hard. Too hard. “Cry for me. Give me your tears, and let me kiss them away, and heal me.” 

“Yes, Tom.” I sobbed, giving him what he wanted. 

“Oh, bless you. Thank you. I’m so happy,” Tom raised his face to mine, beaming at me. “I’ve my very own phoenix to come home to, a fire to warm me, tears to heal me, what else could I possibly ever ask for?”

Tom’s lips brushed over my temple, my cheek, the line of my jaw, and my skin shivered as he pressed his tongue against me here and there, drinking me in. I wound my arms around his shoulders and leaned forward, pressing my chest against his, my abdomen against his abdomen, my legs criss-crossed atop his legs. I laced my hands behind his head and buried my face in his neck, sobbing, open-mouthed and closed eyes against his body. 

Tom’s hips canted upwards. In all my crying, in all my emotion I’d forgotten that I was still impaled upon him. I gasped, the tip of his length throbbing against the deepest part of me. He moved again and I sobbed harder. 

“That’s it,” Tom cooed, stroking my back up and down, up and down, up and down, curling his hands over my shoulders, holding me down against him. “Cry for me. Fall into me, join with me, and heal me.”

The pressure of Gabby’s body upon mine, my flesh inside hers, awoke every single nerve fibre in me. I continued under the strange hallucination of her melting into me, melding with me, forging a new creation out of the two of us, together. I tented my fingers against the re-folded wings on her back and pressed her, more firmly against me. 

“Look at me,” I commanded. She complied, lifting her head, separating her flesh from that of my shoulder. I felt the pull, and it was pleasurable.

“Give me your mouth.” Again, she complied. I cupped the back of her skull, like Hamlet would Yorick, and brought her face slowly to mine, with full intent to merge with her there as we’d merged everywhere else. I wanted all of her. I wanted her flame. I wanted her healing power inside me. 

 

Tom didn’t just kiss me. He worshipped me with his lips and his tongue, and even his teeth. He didn’t speak at all, so I had no idea what hallucination or fantasy was playing out in his brain. I didn’t know whether he thought me on fire again, or whether he felt as if our faces were merging into one via our open mouths, but his touch was rife with an ardour and a devotion I’d never experienced before. 

Not that Tom was never passionate, he was, believe me, but this was just different.

It was as if we were feeding off of each other. 

My mouth not only gave benediction to Gabby’s lips, but to her cheeks, her chin, forehead, even the corners of her eyes, where those precious, restorative tears continued to flow unchecked and unheeded. 

I returned home from my pilgrimage over Gabby’s face, where I’d gathered the scattered rosary stones of her tears. I whispered an invocation into the temple of her mouth, and Gabby cherished me devoutly in return, moaning out her prayers and songs of praise.

My hand, again, seemingly on its own, returned between our joined bodies, offering her all of my glories and homage and devotions below to join in heavenly antiphon with those above.

“Tom,” she cried, wriggling her flesh amongst mine, her hands wound in her now unbound hair. Her hair which itself now caught fire, her beautiful, clockwork wings fluttering out again, flaming in the dark of the room behind us. 

“Oh, God, you…oh,” she entreated, “please. Please.”

“Yes,” I answered her prayer. “Burn for me.”

Tom’s arm gripped hard around me, and he flipped me over in one swift movement such that my back slapped, almost painfully, upon the leather sofa. The cushions hissed with the shifted weight, and I whimpered as Tom thrust himself, as high as he could go, up into my body, his tongue thrusting as deep as it could go within my mouth.

It was a strange, yet wondrous sensation, making love to the fire bird. There was no fear of the fire, however. I never once even thought that I’d burn, that I’d be damaged by the flames; that I’d fall into them and be lost forever. This wasn’t a consuming flame, you see, it was a restorative flame, like one that would cook my food to nourish me, or that I could use as a tool, or one that would bring peace, like the laminar burn of a candle. 

The heat of her jumped inside of me, coiling in my lower abdomen like one of those snake fireworks you set off upon the pavement. You light it and it grows, exponentially, winding up and up and up and up in a black, hot curve of ash until it spends itself, sputtering and whimpering, utterly satisfied.

That’s how it felt. The fire grew and grew within me as Gabrielle and I moved as one. 

Gabrielle moaned and threw her flaming head back. There was, within the two of us, a presence, a comforting, delicious warmth that pulsed against my flesh.

It carried my own release, my own heat’s and my own heart’s unfurling in wave after wave after wave with it.

My entire body warmed. 

She must have wrapped her wings about me.

Tom cried out into my mouth, a wail of pleasure so pure, so unfettered that it made me tear up and sob once again. “Gabrielle,” he whispered, breathing heavily. 

He called me Gabrielle. Not Gabby, not Gabs, or Gab-a-bab, but Gabrielle. “Oh you, I love you.” Tom whispered, stroking my hair back from my face. “You restored me. Thank you.”

It became easier, then, to separate from her. I pushed off, rolling on to my side behind her. The sensation of our skin and bone and muscle being joined together disappeared completely, leaving me feeling relieved, but a bit sad. 

Disappeared, too, were her flaming wings and the fiery halo about her head. 

My own head became heavy, my eyelids equally as slumberous. I’d grown suddenly sleepy, and I let myself fall back upon the sofa cushions, feeling like I could sink into them. “Gabrielle,” I spoke against her back. “Love, I need to sleep now, I think.”

I turned and peered at Tom over my shoulder. So peaceful, his face arranged in an expression of pure snoozy bliss. I turned completely over and placed a tender kiss at the bridge of his nose. He smiled that secret smile for me and mumbled something about making sure to get some bottles to hold my special tears for later. 

I laughed at that. Crazy, nutty, insane son of a bitch. 

I sat up, and adjusted the tightness of my prosthetic’s suction. It had come loose during our… whatever you call what we just did. I stood, stretched, and ran my hands over my body, landing them across my abdomen. 

I turned, bent, and folded my leg beneath me, sitting in a quasi-lotus position upon the floor before Tom.

Tom grumbled and shifted, pulling the blanket down off the top of the cushions, draping it over himself. I reached for it and adjusted it. “You’ll be terribly hungry when you wake, love,” I said, “I’ll make your favourite crisps and salsa, hot as you can stand it, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay, s'nice,” he mumbled. 

I grinned, working my hands over his curls. “I’ve some news for you, but it’ll keep.”

“Okay, Gabs,” he smacked his lips, and then he murmured, “you can tell me all about the baby later.”

I sat there, utterly gobsmacked; blinking, frowning, peering suspiciously into his sleeping face. I grasped his shoulder and shook him a little. “How the hell did you know about that?”

“Saw him…” Tom rumbled, “in the fire. Felt him… in… inside.” 

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ with a pram and nappies and a flat-pack cot to get brassed of at whilst trying to put it together using the wrong tools whilst sitting upon the floor in a pastel painted room.

"W'll call 'im... mmm...yessss. James."


End file.
